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THE EPICUREAN, 



A TALE. 



ALCIPHRON, 

A POEM. 









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THE EPICUREAN, 

a ©ale. 

WITH VIGNETTE ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY 

I 

J. M. W. TURNER, ESQ. R.A. 

AND 

ALCIPHRON, 

& Pern. 
BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

AUTHOR OF LALLA BOOKH, $c. «£c. 



LONDON : 
JOHN MACRONE, 3, ST. JAMES'S SQUARE; 

SOLD BY 

SIMPKIN AND MARSHALL, STATIONERS' COURT, AND ROBERT 
JENNINGS, CHEAFSIDE. 

1839. 



t £S 
/f3f 



1*' 



/^ Gift 
r Herbert PeSl 
March 13, 1943 



PRINTED BY C. V/HITINC* bcaufort house 



LORD JOHN RUSSELL 



THIS VOL UME 



IS INSCRIBED 



BY ONE WHO ADMIRES HIS CHARACTKR 
AND TALENTS, 

AND IS PROUD OF HIS FRIENDSHIP. 



PRELIMINARY NOTICE. 



To introduce thus, by a new preface, to my readers, 
a work which has been for so many years before the 
public, and which, however undeserving of such no- 
tice, has been translated into most of the languages of 
Europe,* may be regarded as rather an unnecessary 
ceremony. Some circumstances, however, connected 
with this new edition, as well as with the Poems sub- 
joined to the narrative, seem to require from me a few 
prefatory words. The idea of calling in the magic 
pencilof Mr. Turner, to illustrate some of the scenes 
of the following story, was first suggested by the late 
Mr. Macrone, — to whose general talents and enter- 
prising spirit all who knew him will bear ready and 
cordial testimony. His original wish had been that 
I should undertake for him some new poem, or story, 
to be thus embellished by the artist. But other tasks 
and ties having rendered my compliance with this 
wish impracticable, he proposed to purchase of me 
the copyright of the Epicurean, for a single " illus- 

* Among the translations which have reached me are two in French, 
one in Italian (Milan, 1836, 24mo,-~ Venice, 1835), one in German 
(Inspruc, 1828), and one in Dutch, by Mr. Herman van Loghem 
(Deventer, 1829). 



VI11 PRELIMINARY NOTICE. 

trated" edition ; and hence the appearance of the 
work under its present new auspices and form. 

A few more words remain to be said, respecting 
the Poems which occupy a portion of this volume ; 
and which, with the exception of a few fragments of 
them found scattered through the prose narrative, are 
here, for the first time, published. My original plan, 
in commencing the story of the Epicurean, was to 
write it all in verse, and in the form, as will be seen, 
of letters from the different personages. But the 
great difficulty of managing, in rhyme, the minor de- 
tails of a story, so as to be clear without becoming 
prosaic, and, still more, the diffuse length to which, 
I saw, narration in verse would be likely to run, de- 
terred me from pursuing this plan any further ; and 
I then commenced the tale anew, in its present shape. 
Whether I was wrong or right, in this change, my 
readers have now an opportunity of judging for them- 
selves. 

In the Letters of Alciphron will be found, — height- 
ened only by a freer use of poetic colouring, — nearly 
the same details of events, feelings, and scenery which 
occupy the earlier part of the prose narrative. But 
the Letter of the hypocritical High Priest, whatever 
else may be its claim to attention, will be found, both 
in matter and form, new to the reader. 

Thomas Moore. 



LETTER TO THE TRANSLATOR, 



-, Esq. 

Cairo, June 19, 1800. 



My dear Sir, 

In a visit lately paid by me to the monastery of St. Ma- 
carius, — which is situated, as you know, in the Valley of 
the Lakes of Natron, — I was lucky enough to obtain 
possession of a curious Greek manuscript which, in the 
hope that you may be induced to translate it, I herewith 
transmit to you. Observing one of the monks very busily 
occupied in tearing up into a variety of fantastic shapes 
some papers which had the appearance of being the 
leaves of old books, I inquired of him the meaning of 
his task, and received the following explanation : — 
b 



The Arabs, it seems, who are as fond of pigeons as the 
ancient Egyptians, have a superstitious notion that, if 
they place in their pigeon-houses small scraps of paper, 
written over with learned characters, the birds are always 
sure to thrive the better for the charm ; and the monks, 
who are never slow in profiting by superstition, have, at 
all times, a supply of such amulets for purchasers. 

In general, the fathers of the monastery have been 
in the habit of scribbling these fragments themselves ; 
but a discovery lately made by them, saves all this 
trouble. Having dug up (as my informant stated) a 
chest of old manuscripts, which, being chiefly on the 
subject of alchemy, must have been buried in the time 
of Dioclesian, " we thought," added the monk, " that we 
could not employ such rubbish more properly, than in 
tearing it up, as you see, for the pigeon-houses of the 
Arabs." 

On my expressing a wish to rescue some part of these 
treasures from the fate to which his indolent fraternity 
had consigned them, he produced the manuscript which 
I have now the pleasure of sending you, — the only one, 



Xl 



he said, remaining entire, — and I very readily paid the 
price which he demanded for it. 

You will find the story, I think, not altogether unin- 
teresting ; and the coincidence, in many respects, of the 
curious details in Chap. VI. with the description of the 
same ceremonies in the Romance of Sethos,* will, I have 
no doubt, strike you. Hoping that you may be induced 
to give a translation of this Tale to the world, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Very truly yours, 



* The description, here alluded to, may also be found, copied 
verbatim from Sethos, in the " Voyages d'Antenor." — " In that phi- 
losophical romance, called ' La Vie de Sethos,' " says Warburton, 
" we find a much juster account of old Egyptian wisdom, than in all 
the pretended ' Histoire du Ciel.* " Div. Leg. book iv. sect. 14. 



THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER I. 

It was in the fourth year of the reign of the late Em- 
peror Valerian, that the followers of Epicurus, who were 
at that time numerous in Athens, proceeded to the elec- 
tion of a person to fill the vacant chair of their sect ; — 
and, by the unanimous voice of the School, T was the in- 
dividual chosen for their Chief. I was just then entering 
on my twenty-fourth year, and no instance had ever before 
occurred, of a person so young being selected for that of- 
fice. Youth, however, and the personal advantages that 
adorn it, were not, it may be supposed, among the least 
valid recommendations to a sect that included within its 
circle all the beauty as well as the wit of Athens, and which, 
though dignifying its pursuits with the name of philosophy, 
was little else than a pretext for the more refined cultiva- 
tion of pleasure. 



* THE EPICUREAN. 

The character of the sect had, indeed, much changed, 
since the time of its wise and virtuous founder, who, while 
he asserted that Pleasure is the only Good, inculcated also 
that Good is the only source of Pleasure. The purer 
part of this doctrine had long evaporated, and the tempe- 
rate Epicurus would have as little recognised his own sect 
in the assemblage of refined voluptuaries who now usurped 
its name, as he would have known his own quiet Garden 
in the luxurious groves and bowers among which the meet- 
ings of the School were now held. 

Many causes concurred, at this period, besides the at- 
tractiveness of its doctrines, to render our school by far the 
most popular of any that still survived the glory of Greece. 
It may generally be observed, that the prevalence, in one 
half of a community, of very rigid notions on the subject 
of religion, produces the opposite extreme of laxity and 
infidelity in the other ; and this kind of reaction it was 
that now mainly contributed to render the doctrines of 
the Garden the most fashionable philosophy of the day. 
The rapid progress of the Christian faith had alarmed all 
those, who, either from piety or worldliness, were inte- 
rested in the continuance of the old established creed — 
all who believed in the Deities of Olympus, and all who 
lived by them. The consequence was, a considerable in- 
crease of zeal and activity, throughout the constituted 
authorities and priesthood of the whole Heathen world. 
What was wanting in sincerity of belief was made up in 



THE EPICUREAN. 6 

rigour ; — the weakest parts of the Mythology were those, 
of course, most angrily defended, and any reflections, tend- 
ing to bring Saturn, or his wife Ops, into contempt, were 
punished with the utmost severity of the law. 

In this state of affairs, between the alarmed bigotry of 
the declining Faith, and the simple, sublime austerity of 
her rival, it was not wonderful that those lovers of ease 
and pleasure, who had no interest, reversionary or other- 
wise, in the old religion, and were too indolent to inquire 
into the sanctions of the new, should take refuge from 
the severities of both in the arms of a luxurious philo- 
sophy, which, leaving to others the task of disputing about 
the future, centred all its wisdom m the full enjoyment 
of the present. 

The sectaries of the Garden had, ever since the death 
of their founder, been accustomed to dedicate to his 
memory the twentieth day of every month. To these 
monthly rites had, for some time, been added a grand 
annual Festival, in commemoration of his birth. The 
feasts, given on this occasion by my predecessors in the 
Chair, had been invariably distinguished for their taste 
and splendour ; and it was my ambition, not merely to 
imitate this example, but even to render the anniversary 
now celebrated under my auspices, so brilliant as to efface 
the recollection of all that had preceded it. 

Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed so bright a scene 
The grounds that formed the original site of the Garden 
b 2 



4 THE EPICUREAN. 

had received, from time to time, considerable additions ; and 
the whole extent was now laid out with that perfect taste, 
which understands how to wed Nature with Art, without sa- 
crificing any of her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, lead- 
ing through wildernesses of shade and fragrance — glades, 
opening, as if to afford a playground for the sunshine — 
temples, rising on the very spots where Imagination her- 
self would have called them up, and fountains and lakes, 
in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly courting 
the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace, — such was 
the variety of feature that diversified these fair gardens ; 
and, animated as they were on this occasion, by all the 
living wit and loveliness of Athens, it afforded a scene 
such as my own youthful fancy, rich as it was then in 
images of luxury and beauty, could hardly have anticipated. 

The ceremonies of the day began with the very dawn, 
when, according to the form of simpler and better times, 
those among the disciples who had apartments within the 
Garden, bore the image of our Founder in procession from 
chamber to chamber, chanting verses in praise of what 
had long ceased to be objects of our imitation — his fru- 
gality and temperance. 

Round a beautiful lake, in the centre of the Garden, 
stood four white Doric temples, in one of which was col- 
lected a library containing all the flowers of Grecian lite- 
rature ; while, in the remaining three, Conversation, the 
Song, and the Dance, held, uninterrupted by each other, 



THE EPICUREAN. O 

their respective rites. In the Library stood busts of all 
the most illustrious Epicureans, both of Rome and Greece 
— Horace, Atticus, Pliny the elder, the poet Lucretius, 
Lucian,and the lamented biographer of the Philosophers, 
lately lost to us, Diogenes Laertius. There were also the 
portraits, in marble, of all the eminent female votaries of 
the school — Leontium and her fair daughter Danae, 
Themista, Philsenis, and others. 

It was here that, in my capacity of Heresiarch, on the 
morning of the Festival, I received the felicitations of the 
day from some of the fairest lips of Athens ; and, in pro- 
nouncing the customary oration to the memory of our 
Master (in which it was usual to dwell upon the doctrines 
he had inculcated), endeavoured to attain that art, so useful 
before such an audience, of lending to the gravest sub- 
jects a charm, which secures them listeners even among 
the simplest and most volatile. 

Though study, as may be supposed, engrossed but little 
the nights or mornings of the Garden, yet all the lighter 
parts of learning — that portion of its attic honey, for which 
the bee is not compelled to go very deep into the flower — 
was rather zealously cultivated by us. Even here, how- 
ever, the young student had to encounter that kind of 
distraction, which is, of all others, the least favourable to 
composure of thought ; and, with more than one of my 
fair disciples, there used to occur such scenes as the 
following, which a poet of the Garden, taking his picture 
from the life, thus described : — 



THE EPICUREAN. 

" As o'er the lake, in evening's glow, 

That temple threw its lengthening shade, 
Upon the marble steps below 

There sat a fair Corinthian maid, 
Gracefully o'er some volume bending; 

While, by her side, the youthful Sage 
Held back her ringlets, lest, descending, 

They should o'ershadow all the page." 

But it was for the evening of that day, that the richest 
of our luxuries were reserved. Every part of the Garden 
was illuminated, with the most skilful variety of lustre ; 
while over the lake of the Temples were scattered wreaths 
of flowers, through which boats, filled with beautiful chil- 
dren, floated, as through a liquid parterre. 

Between two of these boats a mock combat was perpe- 
tually carried on ; — their respective commanders, two 
blooming youths, being habited to represent Eros and An- 
teros ; the former, the Celestial Love of the Platonists, 
and the latter, that more earthly spirit, which usurps the 
name of Love among the Epicureans. Throughout the 
whole evening their conflict was maintained with various 
success ; the timid distance at which Eros kept aloof from 
his lively antagonist being his only safeguard against 
those darts of fire, with showers of which the other as- 
sailed him, but which, falling short of their mark upon 
the lake, only scorched the few flowers on which they 
fell, and were extinguished. 

In another part of the gardens, on a wide glade, illu- 
minated only by the moon, was performed an imitation of 



THE EPICUREAN. 7 

the torch-race of the Panathenaea, by young boys chosen 
for their fleetness, and arrayed with wings, like Cupids ; 
while, not far off, a group of seven nymphs, with each a 
star on her forehead, represented the movements of the 
planetary choir, and imbodied the dream of Pythagoras 
into real motion and song. 

At every turning some new enchantment broke unex- 
pectedly on the eye or ear; and now, from the depth of a 
dark grove, from which a fountain at the same time issued, 
there came a strain of sweet music, which mingling with 
the murmur of the water, seemed like the voice of the 
spirit that presided over its flow; — while, at other times, 
the same strain appeared to come breathing from among 
flowers, or was heard suddenly from under ground, as if 
the foot had just touched some spring that set its melody 
in motion. 

It may seem strange that I should now dwell upon all 
these trifling details ; but they were, to me, full of the 
future ; and every thing connected with that memorable 
night — even its long-repented follies — must for ever live 
fondly and sacredly in my memory. The festival con- 
cluded with a banquet, at which, as master of the Sect, 
I presided ; and being, myself, in every sense, the ascend- 
ant spirit of the whole scene, gave life to all around me, 
and saw my own happiness reflected in that of others. 



THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER II. 



The festival was over ; — the sounds of the song and 
dance had ceased, and I was now left in those luxurious 
gardens, alone. Though so ardent and active a votary of 
pleasure, I had, by nature, a disposition full of melan- 
choly ; — an imagination that, even in the midst of mirth 
and happiness, presented saddening thoughts, and threw 
the shadow of the future over the gayest illusions of the 
present. Melancholy was, indeed, twin-born in my soul 
with Passion ; and not even in the fullest fervour of the 
latter, were they ever separated. From the first moment 
that I was conscious of thought and feeling, the same dark 
thread had run across the web ; and images of death and 
annihilation came to mingle themselves with even the most 
smiling scenes through which love and enjoyment led me. 
My very passion for pleasure but deepened these gloomy 
thoughts. For, shut out, as I was by my creed, from a 
future life, and having no hope beyond the narrow horizon 
of this, every minute of earthly delight assumed, in my 
eyes, a mournful preciousness ; and pleasure, like the 



THE EPICUREAN. 9 

flower of the cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the 
neighbourhood of death. 

This very night my triumph, my happiness had seemed 
complete. I had been the presiding genius of that volup- 
tuous scene. Both my ambition and my love of pleasure 
had drunk deep of the rich cup for which they thirsted. 
Looked up to, as I was, by the learned, and loved by the 
beautiful and the young, I had seen, in every eye that met 
mine, either the acknowledgment of bright triumphs al- 
ready won, or the promise of others, still brighter, that 
awaited me. Yet, even in the midst of all this, the same 
dark thoughts had presented themselves ; — the perishable- 
ness of myself and all around me had every instant re- 
curred to my mind. Those hands I had pressed — those 
eyes, in which I had seen sparkling a spirit of light and 
life that should never die, those voices, that had talked of 
eternal love — all, all, I felt, were but a mockery of the 
moment, and would leave nothing eternal but the silence 
of their dust ! 

Oh, were it not for this sad voice 

Stealing amid our mirth to say, 
That all, in which we most rejoice, 

Ere night may be the earth-worm's preyj — 
But for this bitter— only this — 
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, 
And capable as feels my soul 
Of draining to its depth the whole, 
I should turn earth to heaven, and be, 
If bliss made gods, a deity ! 



10 THE EPICUREAN. 

Such was the description I gave of my own feelings, in 
one of those wild, passionate songs, to which this mixture 
of gaiety and melancholy, in a spirit so buoyant, naturally 
gave birth. 

And seldom had my heart surrendered itself to this sort 
of vague sadness more unresistingly than at the present 
moment, when, as I paced thoughtfully among the fading 
lights and flowers of the banquet, the echo of my own step 
was all that now sounded, where so many gay forms had 
lately been revelling. The moon was still up, the morning 
had not yet glimmered, and the calm glories of night still 
rested on all around. Unconscious whither my pathway led, 
I wandered along, till I, at length, found myself before that 
fair statue of Venus, with which the chisel of Alcamenes 
had embellished our Garden ; — that image of deified 
woman, the only idol to which I had ever yet bent the 
knee. Leaning against the pedestal of the statue, I raised 
my eyes to heaven, and fixing them sadly and intently on 
the ever-burning stars, as if I sought to read the mournful 
secret in their light, asked, wherefore was it that Man 
alone must fade and perish, while they, so much less won- 
derful, less godlike than he, thus still live on in radiance 
unchangeable and for ever ! — " Oh, that there were some 
spell, some talisman," I exclaimed, " to make the spirit 
that burns within us deathless as those stars, and open 
to it a career like theirs, burning and inextinguishable 
throughout all time ! n 

While thus indulging in wild and melancholy fancies, I 



THE EPICUREAN. 1 1 

felt that lassitude which earthly pleasure, however sweet, 
leaves behind — come insensibly over me, and at length 
sunk at the base of the statue to sleep. 

But even in sleep, the same fancies still haunted me ; 
and a dream, so distinct and vivid as to leave behind it the 
impression of reality, thus presented itself to my mind. I 
found myself suddenly transported to a wide and desolate 
plain, where nothing appeared to breathe, or move, or 
live. The very sky that hung above it looked pale and 
extinct, giving the idea, not of darkness, but of light that 
had died ; — and had that whole region been the remains of 
some older world, left broken up and sunless, it could not 
have presented an aspect more dead and desolate. The 
only thing that bespoke life, throughout this melancholy 
waste, was a small spark of light, that at first glimmered 
in the distance, but, at length, slowly approached the 
bleak spot where I stood. As it drew nearer, I could see 
that its small, but steady, gleam came from a taper in 
the hand of an ancient and venerable man, who now 
stood, like a pale messenger from the grave, before me. 
After a few moments of awful silence, during which he 
looked at me with a sadness that thrilled my very soul, he 
said, u Thou, who seekest eternal life, go unto the shores 
of the dark Nile — go unto the shores of the dark Nile, 
and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seekest V 9 

No sooner had he uttered these words, than the deathlike 
hue of his cheek at once brightened into a smile of more 
than human promise ; while the small torch he held in his 



12 THE EPICUREAN. 

hand sent forth a glow of radiance, by which suddenly the 
whole surface of the desert was illuminated ; — the light 
spreading even as far as the distant horizon's edge, along 
whose line were now seen gardens, palaces, and spires, all 
as bright as the rich architecture of the clouds at sunset. 
Sweet music, too, came floating in every direction, through 
the air, and, from all sides, such varieties of enchantment 
broke upon me, that, with the excess alike of harmony 
and of radiance, I awoke. 

That infidels should be superstitious is an anomaly 
neither unusual nor strange. A belief in superhuman 
agency seems natural and necessary to the mind ; and, if 
not suffered to flow in the obvious channels, it will find 
a vent in some other. Hence, many who have doubted 
the existence of a God, have yet implicitly placed them- 
selves under the patronage of Fate or the stars. Much 
the same inconsistency I was conscious of in my own feel- 
ings. Though rejecting all belief in a Divine Providence, 
I had yet a faith in dreams, that all my philosophy could 
not conquer. Nor was experience wanting to confirm 
me in my delusion ; for, by some of those accidental coin- 
cidences, which make the fortune of soothsayers and pro- 
phets, dreams, more than once, had been to me 

Oracles, truer far than oak 
Or dove, or tripod, ever spoke. 

It was not wonderful, therefore, that the vision of that 

night — touching, as it did, a chord so ready to vibrate — 

should have affected me with more than ordinary power, 



THE EPICUREAN. 13 

and even sunk deeper into my memory with every effort I 
made to forget it. In vain was it that I mocked at my own 
weakness ; — such self-derision is seldom sincere. In vain 
did I pursue my accustomed pleasures. Their zest was, 
as usual, for ever new ; but still, in the midst of all my 
enjoyment, came the cold and saddening consciousness of 
mortality, and, along with it, the recollection of this vi- 
sionary promise, to which my fancy, in defiance of reason, 
still continued to cling. 

At times, indulging in reveries, that were little else 
than a continuation of my dream, I even contemplated 
the possible existence of some mighty secret, by which our 
youth, if not perpetuated, might be at least prolonged, and 
that dreadful vicinity of death, within whose circle love 
pines and pleasure sickens, might be for a while averted. 
" Who can tell," I would ask, " but that in Egypt, that 
region of wonders, where Mystery hath yet unfolded but 
half her treasures, — where still remain, undeciphered, 
upon the pillars of Seth, so many written secrets of the 
antediluvian world — who knows but that some powerful 
charm, some amulet, may there lie hid, whose discovery, 
as this phantom hath promised, but awaits my coming, — 
some compound of the same pure atoms, that shine in 
the living stars, and whose infusion into the frame of 
man might render him also unfading and immortal !" 

Thus did I sometimes speculate, in those fond rambling 
moods, when the life of excitement in which I was en- 
gaged, acting upon a warm heart and vivid fancy, pro- 



14 THE EPICUREAN. 

duced an intoxication of spirit, during which I was not 
wholly master of myself. I felt this bewilderment, too, 
not a little increased by the constant struggle between my 
own natural feelings, and the cold, mortal creed of my 
sect — in endeavouring to escape from whose deadening 
bondage I but broke loose into the realms of fantasy and 
romance. 

Even in my calmest and soberest moments, however, 
that strange vision for ever haunted me ; and every effort 
I made to chase it from my recollection was unavailing. 
The deliberate conclusion, therefore, to which I came at 
last, was, that to visit Egypt was now my only resource ; 
that, without, seeing that land of wonders, I could not 
rest, nor, until convinced of my folly by disappointment, 
be reasonable. Without delay, accordingly, I announced to 
my friends of the Garden, the intention I had formed to 
pay a visit to the land of Pyramids. To none of them, 
however, did I dare to confess the vague, visionary im- 
pulse that actuated me; — knowledge being the object 
that I alleged, while Pleasure was that for which they 
gave me credit. The interests of the School, it was feared, 
might suffer by my absence ; and there were some ten- 
derer ties, which had still more to fear from separation, 
But for the former inconvenience a temporary remedy 
was provided ; while the latter a skilful distribution of 
vows and sighs alleviated. Being furnished with recom- 
mendatory letters to all parts of Egypt, I set sail in the 
summer of the year 257, A.D., for Alexandria. 



THE EPICUREAN. 15 



CHAPTER III. 



To one, who so well knew how to extract pleasure from 
every moment on land, a sea-voyage, however smooth and 
favourable, appeared the least agreeable mode of losing 
time that could be devised. Often indeed did my imagi- 
nation, in passing some isle of those seas, people it with 
fair forms and loving hearts, to which most willingly would 
I have paused to offer homage. But the wind blew direct 
towards the land of Mystery ; and, still more, I heard a 
voice within me, whispering for ever " On." 

As we approached the coast of Egypt, our course be- 
came less prosperous ; and we had a specimen of the be- 
nevolence of the divinities of the Nile, in the shape of 
a storm, or rather whirlwind, which had nearly sunk our 
vessel, and which the Egyptians on board declared to be 
the work of their deity Typhon. After a day and night 
of danger, during which we were driven out of our course 
to the eastward, some benigner influence prevailed above ; 
and, at length, as the morning freshly broke, we saw the 
beautiful city of Alexandria rising from the sea, with its 



16 THE EPICUREAN. 

proud Palace of Kings, its portico of four hundred co- 
lumns, and the fair Pillar of Pillars, towering in the midst 
to heaven. 

After passing in review this splendid vision, we shot 
rapidly round the Rock of Pharos, and, in a few minutes, 
found ourselves in the harbour of Eunostus. The sun 
had risen, but the light on the Great Tower of the Rock 
was still burning ; and there was a languor in the first 
waking movements of that voluptuous city — whose houses 
and temples lay shining in silence around the harbour — 
that sufficiently attested the festivities of the preceding 
night. 

We were soon landed on the quay ; and, as I walked, 
through a line of palaces and shrines, up the street which 
leads from the sea to the Gate of Canopus, fresh as I was 
from the contemplation of my own lovely Athens, I yet 
felt a glow of admiration at the scene around me, which 
its novelty, even more than its magnificence, inspired. 
Nor were the luxuries and delights, which such a city 
promised, among the least of the considerations upon 
which my fancy dwelt. On the contrary, every thing 
around me seemed prophetic of love and pleasure. The very 
forms of the architecture, to my Epicurean imagination, 
appeared to call up images of living grace ; and even the 
dim seclusion of the temples and groves spoke only of 
tender mysteries to my mind. As the whole bright scene 
grew animated around me, I felt that though Egypt might 



THE EPICUREAN. 17 

not enable me to lengthen life, she could teach the next 
best art, that of multiplying its enjoyments. 

The population of Alexandria, at this period, consisted 
of the most motley miscellany of nations, religions, and 
sects, that had ever been brought together in one city. 
Beside the school of the Grecian Platonist was seen the 
oratory of the cabalistic Jew; while the church of the 
Christian stood, undisturbed, over the crypts of the Egyp- 
tian Hierophant. Here, the adorer of Fire, from the 
East, laughed at the less elegant superstition of the 
worshipper of cats, from the West. Here Christianity, 
too, had learned to emulate the pious vagaries of Pa- 
ganism ; and while, on one side, her Ophite professor 
was seen bending his knee gravely before a serpent, on 
the other was heard a Nicosian contending, with no less 
gravity, that there was no chance whatever of salvation 
out of the pale of the Greek alphabet. Still worse, the 
uncharitableness of Christian schism was already, with 
equal vigour, distinguishing itself; and I heard every 
where, on my arrival, of the fierce rancour and hate, with 
which the Greek and Latin churchmen were then perse- 
cuting each other, because, forsooth, the one fasted on 
the seventh day of the week, and the others fasted upon 
the fourth and sixth ! 

To none, however, of these different creeds and sects, 
except in as far as they furnished food for ridicule, had 
I time to pay much attention. I was now in the most 
c 



18 THE EPICUREAN. 

luxurious city of the universe, and gave way, without re- 
serve, to the various seductions that surrounded me. My 
reputation, both as a philosopher and a man of pleasure 
had preceded my coming; and Alexandria, the second 
Athens of the world, welcomed me as her own. I found 
my celebrity, indeed, act as a talisman, that opened all 
hearts and doors at my approach. The usual novitiate 
of acquaintance was dispensed with in my favour, and not 
only intimacies, but loves and friendships, ripened as ra- 
pidly in my path, as vegetation springs up where the Nile 
has flowed. The dark beauty of the Egyptian women 
possessed a novelty in my eyes that enhanced its other 
charms : and the hue left by the sun on their rounded 
cheeks seemed but an earnest of the genial ardour he had 
kindled in their hearts — 

Th' imbrowning of the fruit, that tells, 

How rich within the soul of sweetness dwells. 

Some weeks now passed in such constant and ever- 
changing pleasures, that even the melancholy voice deep 
within my heart, though it still spoke, was but seldom 
listened to, and soon died away in the sound of the siren 
songs that surrounded me. At length, as the novelty of 
these gay scenes wore off, the same vague and gloomy 
bodings began to mingle with all my joys ; and an inci- 
dent that occurred, at this time, during one of my gayest 
revels, conduced still more to deepen their gloom. 



THE EPICUREAN. 19 

The celebration of the annual festival of Serapis hap- 
pened to take place during my stay, and I was, more than 
once, induced to join the gay multitudes that flocked to 
the shrine at Canopus on the occasion. Day and night, as 
long as this festival lasted, the great canal, which led from 
Alexandria to Canopus, was covered with boats full of 
pilgrims of both sexes, all hastening to avail themselves 
of this pious licence, which lent the zest of a religious 
sanction to pleasure, and gave a holiday to the passions 
and follies of earth, in honour of heaven. 

I was returning, one lovely night, to Alexandria. The 
north wind, that welcome visiter, had cooled and fresh- 
ened the air 5 while the banks, on either side of the stream, 
sent forth, from groves of orange and henna, the most de- 
licious odours. As I had left all the crowd behind me at 
Canopus, there was not a boat to be seen on the canal but 
my own; and I was just yielding to the thoughts which 
solitude at such an hour inspires, when my reveries were 
suddenly broken by the sound of some female voices, 
coming mingled with laughter and screams, from the gar- 
den of a pavilion, that stood, brilliantly illuminated, upon 
the bank of the canal. 

On rowing nearer, I perceived that both the mirth and 
the alarm had been caused by the efforts of some playful 
girls to reach a hedge of jasmine which grew near the 
water, and in bending towards which they had nearly 
fallen into the stream. Hastening to proffer my assist- 
c 2 



20 THE EPICUREAN. 

ance, I soon recognised the voice of one of my fair Alex- 
andrian friends, and, springing on the bank, was sur- 
rounded by the whole group, who insisted on my joining 
their party in the pavilion, and having flung the tendrils 
of jasmine, which they had just plucked, around me, led 
me, no unwilling captive, to the banquet-room. 

I found here an assemblage of the very flower of Alex- 
andrian society. The unexpectedness of the meeting 
added new zest to it on both sides ; and seldom had I 
ever felt more enlivened, myself, or contributed more 
successfully to circulate life among others. 

Among the company were some Greek women, who, 
according to the fashion of their country, wore veils ; but, 
as usual, rather to set off than conceal their beauty, some 
bright gleams of which were continually escaping from 
under the cloud. There was, however, one female, who 
particularly attracted my attention, on whose head was a 
chaplet of dark-coloured flowers, and who sat veiled and 
silent during the whole of the banquet. She took no 
share, I observed, in what was passing around : the viands 
and the wine went by her untouched, nor did a word that 
was spoken seem addressed to her ear. This abstraction 
from a scene so sparkling with gaiety, though apparently 
unnoticed by any one but myself, struck me as mysterious 
and strange. I inquired of my fair neighbour the cause 
of it, but she looked grave and was silent. 

In the mean time, jthe lyre and the cup went round ; 



THE EPICUREAN. 21 

and a young maid from Athens, as if inspired by the pre- 
sence of her countryman, took her lute, and sung to it 
some of the songs of Greece, with a warmth of feeling that 
bore me back to the banks of the Ilissus, and, even in the 
bosom of present pleasure, drew a sigh from my heart for 
that which had passed away. It was daybreak ere our 
delighted party rose, and most unwillingly re-embarked 
to return to the city. 

We were scarce afloat, when it was discovered that 
the lute of the young Athenian had been left behind ; 
and, with a heart still full of its sweet sounds, I most 
readily sprang on shore to seek it. I hastened at once to 
the banquet-room, which was now dim and solitary, except 
that — there, to my astonishment, was still seated that si- 
jent figure, which had awakened my curiosity so strongly 
during the night. A vague feeling of awe came over me, 
as I now slowly approached it. There was no motion, 
no sound of breathing in that form ; — not a leaf of the 
dark chaplet upon its brow stirred. By the light of a 
dying lamp which stood before the figure, I raised, with 
a hesitating hand, the veil, and saw — what my fancy had 
already anticipated— that the shape underneath was life- 
less, was a skeleton! Startled and shocked, I hurried 
back with the lute to the boat, and was almost as silent 
as that shape itself during the remainder of the voyage. 

This custom among the Egyptians of placing a mummy, 
or skeleton, at the banquet-table, had been for some time 
disused, except at particular ceremonies ; and, even on 



22 THE EPICUREAN. 

such occasions, it had been the practice of the luxurious 
Alexandrians to disguise this memorial of mortality in the 
manner just described. But to me, who was wholly un- 
prepared for such a spectacle, it gave a shock from which 
my imagination did not speedily recover. This silent 
and ghastly witness of mirth seemed to imbody, as it 
were, the shadow in my own heart. The features of the 
grave were thus stamped upon the idea that had long 
haunted me, and this picture of what I was to be, now 
associated itself constantly with the sunniest aspect of 
what I was. 

The memory of the dream now recurred to me more 
livelily than ever. The bright, assuring smile of that ve- 
nerable Spirit, and his words, " Go to the shores of the 
dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seek- 
est," were for ever before my mind. But as yet, alas, 
I had done nothing towards realizing the proud promise. 
Alexandria was not Egypt; — the very soil on which it 
now stood was not in existence, when already Thebes and 
Memphis had numbered ages of glory. 

" No ;" I exclaimed, " beneath the Pyramids of Mem- 
phis, or in the mystic Halls of the Labyrinth, can I alone 
hope to find those holy arcana of science, of which the 
antediluvian world has made Egypt its heir, and among 
which — blest thought ! — the key to eternal life may lie.** 

Having formed my determination, I took leave of my 
many Alexandrian friends, and departed for Memphis. 



THE EPICUREAN. 23 



CHAPTER IV. 



Egypt was, perhaps, the country beyond all others, from 
that mixture of the melancholy and the voluptuous, which 
marked the character of her people, her religion, and her 
scenery, to affect deeply a fancy and temperament like 
mine, and keep both for ever tremblingly alive. Wherever 
I turned, I beheld the desert and the garden, mingling 
together their desolation and bloom. I saw the love-bower 
and the tomb standing side by side, as if, in that land, Plea- 
sure and Death kept hourly watch upon each other. In 
the very luxury of the climate there was the same sadden- 
ing influence. The monotonous splendour of the days, 
the solemn radiance of the nights — all tended to cherish 
that ardent melancholy, the offspring of passion and of 
thought, which had been so long the familiar inmate of 
my soul. 

When I sailed from Alexandria, the inundation of the 
Nile was at its full. The whole valley of Egypt lay covered 
by its flood : and, as, looking around me, I saw in the light 
of the setting sun, shrines, palaces, and monuments, en- 



24 



THE EPICUREAN. 



circled by the waters, I could almost fancy that I beheld 
the sinking island of Atalantis, on the last evening its 
temples were visible above the wave. Such varieties, too, 
of animation as presented themselves on every side ! — 



While, far as sight could reach, beneath as clear 
And blue a heaven as ever bless'd this sphere, 
Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry domes, 
And high -built temples, fit to be the homes 
Of mighty gods,— and pyramids, whose hour 
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower! 

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make 
One theatre of this vast peopled lake, 
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives 
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives. 
Here, up the steps of temples, from the wave 
Ascending, in procession slow and grave, 
Priests, in white garments, go, with sacred wands 
And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands : 
While, there, rich barks— fresh from those sunny tracts 
Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts — 
Glide with their precious lading to the sea, 
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros* ivory, 
Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains 
Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. 

Here, where the waters wind into a bay 
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way 
To Sa'is orBubastus, among beds 
Of lotus-flowers, that close above their heads, 
Push their light barks, and hid, as in a bower, 
Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour ; 
While haply, not far off, beneath a bank 
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank 



THE EPICUREAN. 25 

Is play'd in the cool current by a train 
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she, whose chain 
Around two conquerors of the world was cast, 
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last ! 

Enchanted with the whole scene, I lingered delightedly 
on my voyage, visiting all those luxurious and venerable 
places, whose names have been consecrated by the won- 
der of ages. At Sai's I was present during her Festival of 
Lamps, and read, by the blaze of innumerable lights, those 
sublime words on the temple of Nei'tha : — " I am all that 
has been, that is, and that will be, and no man hath ever 
lifted rny veil." I wandered among the prostrate obelisks 
of Heliopolis, and saw, not without a sigh, the sun smiling 
over her ruins, as if in mockery of the mass of perishable 
grandeur, that had once called itself, in its pride, " The 
City of the Sun." But to the Isle of the Golden Venus 
was, I own, my favourite pilgrimage ; — and there, as I 
rambled through its shades, where bowers are the only 
temples, I felt how far more worthy to form the shrine of 
a Deity are the ever-living stems of the garden and the 
grove, than the most stately columns that the inanimate 
quarry can supply. 

Every where new pleasures, new interests, awaited me ; 
and though Melancholy stood, as usual, for ever near, her 
shadow fell but half-way over my vagrant path, leaving 
the rest but more welcomely brilliant from the contrast. 
To relate my various adventures, during this short voyage, 



26 THE EPICUREAN. 

would only detain me from events, far, far more worthy of 
record. Amidst all this endless variety of attractions, 
the great object of my journey had been forgotten ; — the 
mysteries of this land of the sun still remained, to 
me, as much mysteries as ever, and as yet I had been 
initiated in nothing but its pleasures. 

It was not till that memorable evening, when I first 
stood before the Pyramids of Memphis, and beheld them 
towering aloft, like the watch-towers of Time, from whose 
summit, when about to expire, he will take his last look, — 
it was not till this moment that the great secret announced 
in my dream, again rose in all its inscrutable darkness, 
upon my thoughts. There was a solemnity in the sun- 
shine resting upon those monuments — a stillness, as of re- 
verence, in the air that breathed around them, which stole, 
like the music of past times, into my heart. I thought 
what myriads of the wise, the beautiful, and the brave, 
had sunk into dust since earth first saw those wonders ; 
and, in the sadness of my soul, I exclaimed, — " Must man 
alone, then, perish ? must minds and hearts be annihi- 
lated, while pyramids endure? Oh, Death, Death! even 
upon these everlasting tablets — the only approach to im- 
mortality that kings themselves could purchase — thou 
hast written our doom, awfully and intelligibly, saying, — 
" There is for man no eternal mansion but the grave 1" 

My heart sunk at the thought ; and, for the moment, 
I yielded to that desolate feeling, which overspreads the 



THE EPICUREAN. 27 

soul that hath no light from the future. But again the 
buoyancy of my nature prevailed, and again, the willing 
dupe of vain dreams, I deluded myself into the belief of 
all that my heart most wished, with that happy facility 
which enables imagination to stand in the place of hap- 
piness. " Yes," I cried, " immortality must be within 
man's reach ; and, as wisdom alone is worthy of such a 
blessing, to the wise alone must the secret have been re- 
vealed. It is said, that deep under yonder pyramid, has 
lain for ages concealed the Table of Emerald, on which 
the Thrice-Great Hermes, in times before the flood, en- 
graved the secret of Alchemy which gives gold at will. 
Why, then, may not the mightier, the more god-like se- 
cret, that gives life at will, be recorded there also ? It was 
by the power of gold, of endless gold, that the kings, who 
now repose in those massy structures, scooped earth to its 
very centre, and raised quarries into the air, to provide 
for themselves tombs that might outstand the world. 
Who can tell but that the gift of immortality was also 
theirs ? who knows but that they themselves, triumphant 
over decay, are still living ; — those mighty mansions, which 
we call tombs, being rich and everlasting palaces, within 
whose depths, concealed from this withering world, they 
still wander, with the few Elect who have been sharers of 
their gift, through a sunless, but ever illuminated elysium 
of their own ? Else, wherefore those structures ? where- 
fore that subterranean realm, by which the whole valley 



28 THE EPICUREAN. 

of Egypt is undermined ? Why, else, those labyrinths, 
which none of earth hath ever beheld — which none of 
heaven, except that God, who stands with ringer on his 
hushed lip,* hath ever trodden ? " 

While thus I indulged in fond dreams, the sun, already 
half sunk beneath the horizon, was taking, calmly and glo- 
riously, his last look of the Pyramids, — as he had done, 
evening after evening for ages, till they had become fami- 
liar to him as the earth itself. On the side turned to his ray 
they now presented a front of dazzling whiteness, while, 
on the other, their great shadows, lengthening away to 
the eastward, looked like the first steps of Night, hasten- 
ing to envelop the hills of Araby in her shade. 

No sooner had the last gleam of the sun disappeared, 
than, on every house-top in Memphis, gay, gilded banners 
were seen waving aloft, to proclaim his setting, — while, at 
the same moment, a full burst of harmony was heard to 
peal from all the temples along the shores. 

Startled from my musing by these sounds, I at once re- 
collected, that, on that very evening, the great festival of 
the Moon was to be celebrated. On a little island, half- 
way over between the gardens of Memphis and the eastern 
shore, stood the temple of that goddess, 

* " Enfin Harpocrates representoit aussi le soldi. II est vrai que 
c'etoit le Dieu du silence ; il mettoit le doigt sur la bouche parce qu'on 
adoroit le soleil avec un respectueux silence, et c'est de Ik qu'est venu 
le Sige des Basilidiens, qui tiroient leur origine de PEgypte. " — 
Beausobre. 



THE EPICUREAN. 29 

whose beams 
Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams. 
Not the cold Dian of the North, who chains 
In vestal ice the current of young veins ; 
But she, who haunts the gay, Bubastian grove, 
And owns she sees, from her bright heav'n above, 
Nothing on earth, to match that heav'n, but love ! 

Thus did I exclaim, in the words of one of their own 
Egyptian poets, as, anticipating the various delights of 
the festival, I cast away from my mind all gloomy thoughts, 
and, hastening to my little bark, in which I now lived 
the life of a Nile-bird, on the waters, steered my coarse 
to the island-temple of the Moon. 



30 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER V. 



The rising of the Moon, slow and majestic, as if con- 
scious of the honours that awaited her upon earth, was 
welcomed with a loud acclaim from every eminence, 
where multitudes stood watching for her first light. And 
seldom had that light risen upon a more beautiful scene. 
The city of Memphis, — still grand, though no longer the 
unrivalled Memphis, that had borne away from Thebes 
the crown of supremacy, and worn it undisputed through 
ages, — now, softened by the mild moonlight that harmo- 
nized with her decline, shone forth among her lakes, her 
pyramids, and her shrines, like a dream of human glory 
that must ere long pass away. Even already ruin was 
visible around her. The sands of the Libyan desert 
were gaining upon her like a sea; and among solitary 
columns and sphinxes, already half sunk from sight, 
Time seemed to stand waiting till all that now flourished 
around him should fall beneath his desolating hand, like 
the rest. 

On the waters all was life and gaiety. As far as eye 



THE EPICUREAN. 31 

could reach, the lights of innumerable boats were seen 
studding, like rubies, the surface of the stream. Vessels 
of every kind, — from the light coracle, built for shooting 
down the cataracts, to the large yacht that glides slowly 
to the sound of flutes, — all were afloat for this sacred 
festival, filled with crowds of the young and the gay, not 
only from Memphis and Babylon, but from cities still far- 
ther removed from the festal scene. 

As I approached the island, I could see, glittering 
through the trees on the bank, the lamps of the pilgrims 
hastening to the ceremony. Landing in the direction 
which those lights pointed out, I soon joined the crowd; 
and, passing through a long alley of sphinxes, whose 
spangling marble shone out from the dark sycamores 
around them, reached in a short time the grand vestibule 
of the temple, where I found the ceremonies of the even- 
ing already commenced. 

In this vast hall, which was surrounded by a double 
range of columns, and lay open overhead to the stars of 
heaven, I saw a group of young maidens, moving in a sort 
of measured step, between walk and dance, round a small 
shrine, upon which stood one of those sacred birds, that, 
on account of the variegated colour of their wings, are de- 
dicated to the worship of the moon. The vestibule was 
dimly lighted, — there being but one lamp of naphtha hung 
on each of the great pillars that encircled it. But, having 



32 THE EPICUREAN. 

taken my station beside one of those pillars, I had a clear 
view of the young dancers, as in succession they passed me. 

The drapery of all was white as snow ; and each wore 
loosely, beneath the bosom, a dark-blue zone, or ban- 
delet, studded, like the skies at midnight, with small 
silver stars. Through their dark locks was wreathed 
the white lily of the Nile, — that sacred flower being 
accounted no less welcome to the moon, than the golden 
blossoms of the bean-flower are known to be to the sun. 
As they passed under the lamp, a gleam of light flashed 
from their bosoms, which, I could perceive, was the re- 
flection of a small mirror, that, in the manner of the 
women of the East, each of the dancers wore beneath her 
left shoulder. 

There was no music to regulate their steps ; but, as 
they gracefully went round the bird on the shrine, some, 
by the beat of the Castanet, some, by the shrill ring of a 
sistrum, which they held uplifted in the attitude of their 
own divine Isis, continued harmoniously to time the ca- 
dence of their feet ; while others, at every step, shook a 
small chain of silver, whose sound, mingling with those 
of the castanets and sistrums, produced a wild, but not 
unpleasing harmony. 

They seemed all lovely ; but there was one — whose 
face the light had not yet reached, so downcast she held 
it, — who attracted, and, at length, riveted all my looks 



THE EPICUREAN. 33 

and thoughts. I know not why, but there was a something 
in those half-seen features, — a charm in the very shadow 
that hung over their imagined beauty, — which took my 
fancy more than all the out-shining loveliness of her 
companions. So enchained was I by this coy mystery, 
that her alone, of all the group, could I either see or think 
of — her alone I watched, as, with the same downcast 
brow, she glided gently and aerially round the altar, as if 
her presence, like that of a spirit, was something to be 
felt, not seen. 

Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud crash of a thousand 
cymbals was heard ; — the massy gates of the Temple flew 
open, as if by magic, and a flood of radiance from the il- 
luminated aisle filled the whole vestibule ; while, at the 
same instant, as if the light and the sounds were born to- 
gether, a peal of rich harmony came mingling with the 
radiance. 

It was then,— by that light, which shone full upon the 
young maiden's features, as, starting at the sudden blaze, 
she raised her eyes to the portal, and as quickly let fall 
their lids again, — it was then I beheld, what even my own 
ardent imagination, in its most vivid dreams of beauty, 
had never pictured. Not Psyche herself, when pausing 
on the threshold of heaven, while its first glories fell on 
her dazzled lids, could have looked more purely beautiful, 
or blushed with a more innocent shame. Often as I had 
felt the power of looks, none had ever entered into my 

D 



34 THE EPICUREAN. 

soul so deeply. It was a new feeling — a new sense — 
coming as suddenly upon me as that radiance into the 
vestibule, and, at once, filling my whole being ; — and had 
that bright vision but lingered another moment before my 
eyes, I should, in my transport, have wholly forgotten 
who I was and where, and thrown myself, in prostrate 
adoration, at her feet. 

But scarcely had that gush of harmony been heard, when 
the sacred bird, which had, till now, been standing motion- 
less as an image, spread wide his wings, and flew into the 
Temple : while his graceful young worshippers, with a 
fleetness like his own, followed, — and she, who had left 
a dream in my heart never to be forgotten, vanished along 
with the rest, As she went rapidly past the pillar against 
which I leaned, the ivy that encircled it caught in her 
drapery, and disengaged some ornament which fell to the 
ground. It was the small mirror which I had seen shin- 
ing on her bosom. Hastily and tremulously I picked it 
up, and hurried to restore it ; — but she was already lost 
to my eyes in the crowd. 

In vain did I try to follow ; — the aisles were already 
filled, and numbers of eager pilgrims pressed towards 
the portal. But the servants of the Temple denied all 
further entrance, and still, as I presented myself, their 
white wands barred the way. Perplexed and irritated 
amidst that crowd of faces, regarding all as enemies that 
impeded my progress, I stood on tiptoe, gazing into the 



THE EPICUREAN. 35 

busy aisles, and with a heart beating as I caught, from 
time to time, a glimpse of some spangled zone, or lotus 
wreath, which led me to fancy that I had discovered the 
fair object of my search. But it was all in vain ; — in 
every direction, files of sacred nymphs were moving, but 
nowhere could I discover the form which alone I sought. 

In this state of breathless agitation did I stand for some 
time, — bewildered with the confusion of faces and lights, 
as well as with the clouds of incense that rolled around 
me, — till, fevered and impatient, I could endure it no 
longer. Forcing my way out of the vestibule into the 
cool air, I hurried back through the alley of sphinxes to 
the shore, and flung myself into my boat. 

There lies, to the north of Memphis, a solitary lake, 
(which, at this season, of the year, mingles with the rest 
of the waters,) upon whose shores stands the Necropolis 
or City of the Dead — a place of melancholy grandeur, 
covered over with shrines and pyramids, where many a 
kingly head, proud even in death, has lain awaiting through 
long ages the resurrection of its glories. Through a range 
of sepulchral grots underneath, the humbler denizens of 
the tomb are deposited, — looking out on each successive 
generation that visits them, with the same face and fea- 
tures they wore centuries ago. Every plant and tree, that 
is consecrated to death, from the asphodel-flower to the 
mystic plantain, lends its sweetness or shadow to this 
place of tombs ; and the only noise that disturbs its eter- 
d 2 



36 THE EPICUREAN* 

nal calm, is the low humming sound of the priests at 
prayer, when a new inhabitant is added to the silent 
city. 

It was towards this place of death that, in a mood of 
mind, as usual, half gloomy, half bright, I now, almost 
unconsciously, directed my bark. The form of the young 
Priestess was continually before me. That one bright 
look of hers, the very remembrance of which was worth 
all the actual smiles of others, never for a moment left my 
mind. Absorbed in such thoughts, I continued to row 
on, scarce knowing whither I went, till, at length, startled 
to find myself within the shadow of the City of the Dead, 
I looked up, and beheld, rising in succession before me, 
pyramid beyond pyramid, each towering more loftily than 
the other, — while all were out-topped in grandeur by one, 
upon whose summit the midnight moon appeared to rest 
as on a pedestal. 

Drawing nearer to the shore, which was sufficiently ele- 
vated to raise this silent city of tombs above the level of 
the inundation, I rested my oar, and allowed the boat to 
rock idly upon the water, while, left equally without direc- 
tion, my thoughts fluctuated as idly. How various and 
vague were the dreams that then floated through my mind 
— that bright vision of the temple still mingling itself 
with all ! Sometimes she stood before me, like an aerial 
spirit, as pure as if that element of music and light, 
into which she had then vanished, was her only dwell- 



THE EPICUREAN. 37 

ing. Sometimes, animated with passion, and kindling 
into a creature of earth, she seemed to lean towards me 
with looks of tenderness, which it were worth worlds, but 
for one instant, to inspire ; and again — as the dark fancies, 
that ever haunted me, recurred — I saw her cold, parched, 
and blackening, amid the gloom of those eternal sepulchres 
before me ! 

Turning away, with a shudder, from the cemetery at 
this thought, I heard the sound of an oar plying swiftly 
through the water, and, in a few moments, saw, shooting 
past me towards the shore, a small boat in which sat two 
female figures, muffled up and veiled. Having landed 
them not far from the spot where, under the shadow of 
a tomb on the bank, I lay concealed, the boat again de- 
parted, with the same fleetness, over the flood. 

Never had the prospect of an adventure come more wel- 
come to me than at this moment, when my busy fancy was 
employed in weaving such chains for my heart, as threat- 
ened a bondage, of all others, the most difficult to break. 
To become enamoured thus of a creature of my own ima- 
gination, was the worst, because the most lasting, of follies. 
It is only reality that can afford any chance of dissolving 
such spells, and the idol I was now creating to myself must 
for ever remain ideal. Any pursuit, therefore, that seemed 
likely to divert me from such thoughts — to bring back my 
imagination to earth and reality, from the vague region in 



38 



THE EPICUREAN. 



which it had been wandering, was a relief too seasonable 
not to be welcomed with eagerness. 

I had watched the course which the two figures took, 
and, having hastily fastened my boat to the bank, stepped 
gently on shore, and, at a little distance, followed them. 
The windings through which they led were intricate ; 
but, by the bright light of the moon, I was enabled to 
keep their forms in view, as, with rapid step, they glided 
among the monuments. At length, in the shade of a 
small pyramid, whose peak barely surmounted the plane- 
trees that grew nigh, they vanished from my sight. I 
hastened to the spot, but there was not a sign of life 
around ; and, had my creed extended to another world, I 
might have fancied that these mysterious forms were spi- 
rits, sent from thence to mock me, — so instantaneously 
had they disappeared. I searched through the neigh- 
bouring grove, but all there was still as death. At length, 
in examining one of the sides of the pyramid, which, for 
a few feet from the ground, was furnished with steps, I 
found, midway between peak and base, a part of the sur- 
face, which, although presenting to the eye an appearance 
of smoothness, gave to the touch, I thought, indications 
of a concealed opening. 

After a variety of efforts and experiments, I, at last, 
more by accident than skill, pressed the spring that con> 
manded this hidden aperture. In an instant the portal 



THE EPICUREAN. 39 

slid aside, and disclosed a narrow stairway within, the 
two or three first steps of which were discernible by the 
moonlight, while the rest were all lost in utter darkness. 
Though it was difficult to conceive that the persons whom 
I had been pursuing would have ventured to pass through 
this gloomy opening, yet to account for their disappearance 
otherwise was still more difficult. At all events, my cu- 
riosity was now too eager in the chase to relinquish it; — 
the spirit of adventure, once raised, could not be so easily 
laid. Accordingly, having sent up a gay prayer to that 
bliss-loving Queen whose eye alone was upon me, I passed 
through the portal, and descended into the pyramid. 



40 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER VI. 



At the bottom of the stairway I found myself in a low, 
narrow passage through which, without stooping almost 
to the earth, it was impossible to proceed. Though lead- 
ing through a multiplicity of dark windings, this way 
seemed but little to advance my progress, — its course, 
I perceived, being chiefly circular, and gathering, at every 
turn, but a deeper intensity of darkness. 

" Can any thing human," thought I, " sojourn here?" — 
and had scarcely asked myself the question, when the path 
opened into a long gallery, at the farthest end of which 
a gleam of light was visible. This welcome glimmer ap- 
peared to issue from some cell or alcove, in which the 
right-hand wall of the gallery terminated, and, breathless 
with expectation, I stole gently towards it. 

Arrived at the end of the gallery, a scene presented it- 
self to my eyes, for which my fondest expectations of ad- 
venture could not have prepared me. The place from 
which the light proceeded was a small chapel, of whose in- 
terior, from the dark recess in which I stood, I could take, 



THE EPICUREAN. 41 

unseen myself, a full and distinct view. Over the walls 
of this oratory were painted some of those various sym- 
bols, by which the mystic wisdom of the Egyptians loves 
to shadow out the History of the Soul, — the winged globe 
with a serpent — the rays descending from above, like a 
glory — and the Theban beetle, as he comes forth after the 
waters have passed away, and the first sunbeam falls on 
his regenerated wings. 

In the middle of the chapel, on a low altar of granite, 
lay a lifeless female form, enshrined within a case of crys- 
tal, — as it is the custom to preserve the dead in Ethiopia, 
— and looking as freshly beautiful as if the soul had but 
a few hours departed. Among the emblems of death, on 
the front of the altar, were a slender lotus-branch broken 
in two, and a bird just winging its flight from the spray. 

To these memorials of the dead, however, I paid but 
little attention ; for there was a living object there upon 
which my eyes were now intently fixed. 

The lamp, by which the whole of the chapel was illu- 
minated, was placed at the head of the pale image in the 
shrine; and, between its light and me, stood a female 
form, bending over the monument, as if to gaze upon the 
silent features within. The position in which this figure 
was placed, intercepting a strong light, afforded me, at 
first, but an imperfect and shadowy view of it. Yet even 
at this mere outline I felt my heart beat high, — and me- 
mory had no less share, as it proved, in this feeling than 



42 THE EPICUREAN". 

imagination. For, on the head changing its position, so 
as to let a gleam fall upon the features, I saw, with a 
transport which had almost led me to betray my lurking- 
place, that it was she — the young worshipper of Isis — the 
same, the very same, whom I had seen, brightening the 
holy place where she stood, and looking like an inhabitant 
of some purer world. 

The movement by which she had now afforded me an op- 
portunity of recognising her, was made in raising from the 
shrine a small cross* of silver, which lay directly over the 
bosom of the lifeless figure. Bringing it close to her lips, 
she kissed it with a religious fervour; then turning her 
eyes mournfully upwards, held them fixed with a degree 
of inspired earnestness, as if, at that moment, in direct 
communion with Heaven, they saw neither roof nor any 
other earthly barrier between them and the skies. 

What a power is there in innocence ! whose very help- 
lessness is its safeguard — in whose presence even Passion 
himself stands abashed, and turns worshipper at the very 
altar which he came to despoil ! She, who, but a short hour 
before, had presented herself to my imagination as some- 
thing I could have risked immortality to win, — she, whom 
gladly, from the floor of her own lighted temple, in the 
very face of its proud ministers, I would have borne away 
in triumph, and defied all punishments, both human and 

* A cross was, among the Egyptians, the emblem of a future life. 



THE EPICUREAN. 43 

saered, to make her mine, — that creature was now before 
me, thrown, as if by fate itself, into my power — standing 
there, beautiful and alone, with nothing but her innocence 
for her guard ! Yet, no — so touching was the purity of the 
whole scene, so calm and august that protection which 
the dead extended over the living, that every earthly feel- 
ing was forgotten as I gazed, and love itself became exalted 
into reverence. 

Entranced, indeed; as I felt in witnessing such a scene, 
thus to enjoy it by stealth seemed a wrong, a sacrilege — 
and, rather than let her eyes meet the flash of mine, or 
disturb, by a whisper, that sacred silence, in which Youth 
and Death held communion through undying Love, I 
would have suffered my heart to break, without a mur- 
mur, where I stood. As gently, as if life itself depended 
upon my every movement, I stole away from that tranquil 
and holy scene — leaving it still holy and tranquil as I had 
found it — and, gliding back through the same passages and 
windings by which I had entered, regained the narrow 
stairway, and again ascended into light. 

The sun had just risen, and, from the summit of the 
Arabian hills, was pouring down his beams into that vast 
valley of waters, — as if proud of last night's homage to his 
own divine Isis, now fading away in the superior splendour 
of her Lord. My first impulse was to fly at once from 
this dangerous spot, and seek in new loves and pleasures, 
oblivion of the wondrous scene I had just witnessed. 



44 



THE EPICUREAN. 



" Once out of the circle of this enchantment," I ex- 
claimed, " I know my own susceptibility to new impres- 
sions too well, to doubt that I shall soon break the spell 
that is now around me." 

But vain were all my efforts and resolves. Even while 
swearing to fly, I found my steps still lingering fondly 
round the pyramid — my eyes still turned towards the 
portal which severed this enchantress from the world of 
the living. Hour after hour did I wander through that 
City of Silence, till, already, it was mid-day, and, under 
the eye of the meridian sun, the mighty pyramid of pyra- 
mids stood, like a great spirit, shadowless. 

Again did those wild and passionate feelings, which, 
for a moment, her presence had subdued into reverence, 
return to take possession of my imagination and my senses. 
I even reproached myself for the awe, that had held me 
spell-bound before her. " What would my companions 
of the Garden say, did they know that their chief— he 
whose path Love had strewed with trophies — was now 
pining for a simple Egyptian girl, in whose presence he 
had not dared to give utterance to a single sigh, and who 
had vanquished the victor, without even knowing her 
triumph!" 

A blush came over my cheek at the humiliating thought, 
and I determined, at all risks, to await her coming. That 
she should be an inmate of those gloomy caverns seemed 
inconceivable ; nor did there appear to be any issue from 



THE EPICUREAN. 45 

their depths but by the pyramid. Again, therefore, like 
a sentinel of the dead, did' I pace up and down among 
those tombs, contrasting mournfully the burning fever 
within my own veins with the cold quiet of those who 
were slumbering around. 

At length the intense glow of the sun over my head, 
and, still more, that ever restless agitation in my heart, 
became too much for even strength like mine to endure. 
Exhausted, I threw myself down at the base of the pyra- 
mid—choosing my place directly under the portal, where, 
even should slumber surprise me, my heart, if not my ear, 
might still keep watch, and her footstep, light as it was, 
could not fail to awake me. 

After many an ineffectual struggle against drowsiness, 
I at length sunk into sleep — but not into forgetful n ess. 
The same image still haunted me, in every variety of 
shape, with which imagination, assisted by memory, could 
invest it. Now, like the goddess Nei'tha, upon her throne 
at Sai's, she seemed to sit, with the veil just raised from 
that brow, which till then no mortal had ever beheld, — 
and now, like the beautiful enchantress Rhodope, I saw 
her rise from out the pyramid in which she had dwelt for 
ages — 

" Fair Rhodope, as story tells, 
The bright unearthly nymph, who dwells 
'Mid sunless gold and jewels hid, 
The Lady of the Pyramid I" 



46 THE EPICUREAN. 

So long had my sleep continued, amidst that unbroken 
silence, that I found the moon again resplendent above 
the horizon when I awoke. All around looked still and 
lifeless as before, nor did a print upon the herbage betray 
that any foot, since my own, had passed over it. Re- 
freshed by my long rest, and with a fancy still more ex- 
cited by the mystic wonders of which I had been dream- 
ing, I now resolved to revisit the chapel in the pyramid, 
and put an end, if possible, to this strange mystery that 
haunted me. 

Having learned, from the experience of the preceding 
night, the inconvenience of encountering those labyrinths 
without a light, I now hastened to provide myself with 
a lamp from my boat. Tracking my way back with some 
difficulty to the shore, I there found not only my lamp, 
but also some dates and dried fruits, with a store of 
which I was always provided, for my roving life upon the 
waters, and which now, after so many hours of abstinence, 
were a most welcome and necessary relief, 

Thus prepared, I again ascended the pyramid, and was 
proceeding to search out the secret spring, when a loud, 
dismal noise was heard at a distance, to which all the me- 
lancholy echoes of the cemetery gave answer. The sound 
came, I knew, from the Great Temple on the shore of the 
lake, and was the sort of shriek which its gates— the Gates 
of Oblivion, as they are called — used to send forth from 



THE EPICUREAN. 47 

their hinges, when opening at night, to receive the newly- 
landed dead. 

I had heard that sound before, and always with sad- 
ness; but, at this moment, it thrilled through me like 
a voice of ill omen, and I almost doubted whether I should 
not abandon my enterprise. The hesitation, however, 
was but momentary; — even while it passed through my 
mind, I had touched the spring of the portal. In a few 
seconds more, I was again in the passage beneath the py- 
ramid ; and, being enabled by the light of my lamp to 
follow the windings of the way more rapidly, soon found 
myself at the door of the small chapel in the gallery. 

I entered, still awed, though there was now, alas, no- 
thing living within. The young Priestess had vanished, 
like a spirit into the darkness ; and all the rest remained 
as I had left it on the preceding night. The lamp still 
stood burning upon the crystal shrine ; the cross was 
lying where the hands of the young mourner had placed 
it, and the cold image, within the shrine, wore still the 
same tranquil look, as if resigned to the solitude of death 
— of all lone things the loneliest. Remembering the lips 
that I had seen kiss that cross, and kindling with the re- 
collection, I raised it passionately to my own ; — but the 
dead eyes, at the same moment, I thought, met mine, and, 
awed and saddened in the midst of my ardour, I replaced 
the cross upon the shrine. 



48 THE EPICUREAN. 

I had now lost every clue to the object of my pursuit, 
and was about to retrace slowly my steps to earth, with 
all that gloomy satisfaction which certainty, even when 
unwelcome, brings, — when, as I held forth my lamp, on 
leaving the chapel, I could perceive that the gallery, in- 
stead of terminating here, took a sudden and snake-like 
bend to the left, which had before eluded my observation, 
and which gave promise of a pathway still further into 
those recesses. Reanimated by this discovery, which 
opened a new source of hope to my heart, I cast, for a 
moment, a hesitating look at my lamp, as if to inquire 
whether it would be faithful through the gloom I was 
about to encounter, and then, without further considera- 
tion, rushed eagerly forward. 



THE EPICUREAN. 49 



CHAPTER VII. 



The path led, for a while through the same sort of nar- 
row windings as those which I had before encountered, in 
descending the stairway ; and at length opened, in a similar 
manner, into a straight and steep gallery, along each side 
of which stood, closely ranged and upright, a file of life- 
less bodies, whose glassy eyes appeared to glare upon me 
preternaturally as I passed. 

Arrived at the end of this gallery, I found my hopes, 
for the second time, vanish ; as the path, it was plain, ex- 
tended no further. The only object I could discern, by 
the glimmering of my lamp, which now, every minute, 
burned fainter and fainter, was the mouth of a huge well 
that lay gaping before me — a reservoir of darkness, black 
and unfathomable. It now crossed my memory that I had 
once heard of such wells, as being used occasionally for 
passages by the priests. Leaning down, therefore, over the 
edge, I examined anxiously all within, in order to discover 
whether there was any way of descending into the chasm. 
But the sides, I could see, were hard and smooth as glass, 



50 THE EPICUREAN. 

being varnished all over with that sort of dark pitch, 
which the Dead Sea throws out upon its slimy shore. 

After a more attentive scrutiny, however, I observed, 
at the depth of a few feet, a sort of iron step, projecting 
dimly from the side, and, below it, another, which, though 
hardly perceptible, was just sufficient to encourage an ad- 
venturous foot to the trial. Though all hope of tracing 
the young Priestess was now at an end, — it being impossible 
that female foot should have ventured on this descent, — yet, 
as I had so far engaged in the adventure, and there was, at 
least, a mystery to be unravelled, I determined, at all 
hazards, to explore the chasm. Placing my lamp, therefore, 
(which was hollowed at the bottom, so as to fit like a hel- 
met) firmly upon my head, and having thus both hands at 
liberty for exertion, I set my foot cautiously on the iron 
step, and descended into the well. 

I found the same footing, at regular intervals, to a con- 
siderable depth ; and had already counted near a hundred 
of these steps, when the ladder altogether ceased, and 
I could descend no further. In vain did I stretch down 
my foot in search of support — the hard, slippery sides 
were all that it encountered. At length, stooping my 
head, so as to let the light fall below, I observed an open- 
ing or window directly above the step on which I stood, 
and, taking for granted that the way must lie in that di- 
rection, clambered with no small difficulty through the 
aperture. 



THE EPICUREAN. 51 

I now found myself on a rude and narrow stairway, 
the steps of which were cut out of the living rock, and 
wound spirally downward in the same direction as the 
well. Almost dizzy with the descent, which seemed as if 
it would never end, I, at last, reached the bottom, where 
a pair of massy iron gates were closed directly across my 
path, as if to forbid any further progress. Massy, how- 
ever, and gigantic as they were, I found, to my surprise, 
that the hand of an infant might have opened them with 
ease — so readily did their stupendous folds give way to 
my touch, 

" Light as a lime-bush, that receives 
Some wandering" bird among 1 its leaves." 

No sooner, however, had I passed through, than the din, 
with which the gates clashed together again, was such as 
might have awakened death itself. It seemed as if every 
echo throughout that vast, subterranean world, from the 
Catacombs of Alexandria to Thebes's Valley of Kings, 
had caught up and repeated the thundering sound. 

Startled as I was by the crash, not even this superna- 
tural clangour could divert my attention from the sudden 
light that now broke around me — soft, warm, and wel- 
come as are the stars of his own South to the eyes of the 
mariner who has long been wandering through the cold 
seas of the North. Looking for the source of this splen- 
dour, I saw, through an archway opposite, a long illumi- 
nated alley, stretching away as far as the eye could reach, 
e 2 



52 THE EPICUREAN. 

and fenced, on one side, with thickets of odoriferous 
shrubs, while, along the other extended a line of lofty 
arcades, from which the light, that filled the whole area, 
issued. As soon, too, as the din of the deep echoes had 
subsided, there stole gradually on my ear a strain of choral 
music, which appeared to come mellowed and sweetened 
in its passage, through many a spacious hall within those 
shining arcades ; while, among the voices I could distin- 
guish some female tones, which, towering high and clear 
above all the rest, formed the spire, as it were, into which 
the harmony tapered, as it rose. 

So excited was my fancy by this sudden enchantment, 
that — though never had I caught a sound from the fair 
Egyptian's lips — I yet persuaded myself that the voice I 
now heard was hers, sounding highest and most heavenly of 
all that choir, and calling to me, like a distant spirit from 
its sphere. Animated by this thought, I flew forward to 
the archway, but found, to my mortification, that it was 
guarded by a trellis-work, whose bars, though invisible 
at a distance, resisted all my efforts to force them. 

While occupied in these ineffectual struggles, I per- 
ceived, to the left of the archway, a dark, cavernous open- 
ing, which seemed to lead in a direction parallel to the 
lighted arcades. Notwithstanding, however, my impa- 
tience, the aspect of this passage, as I looked shudderingly 
into it, chilled my very blood. It was not so much dark- 
, ness, as a sort of livid and ghastly twilight, from which 



THE EPICUREAN. 53 

a damp, like that of death-vaults, exhaled, and through 
which, if my eyes did not deceive me, pale, phantom-like 
shapes were, at that very moment, hovering. 

Looking anxiously round, to discover some less formi- 
dable outlet, I saw, over the vast folding-gates through 
which I had just passed, a blue, tremulous flame, which, 
after playing for a few seconds over the dark ground of 
the pediment, settled gradually into characters of light, 
and formed the following words : — 

You, who would try 

Yon terrible track, 
To live, or to die, 

But ne'er to look back. — 

You, who aspire 

To be purified there, 
By the terrors of Fire, 

Of Water, and Air, — 

If danger, and pain, 

And death you despise, 
On— for again 

Into light you shall rise ; 

Rise into light 

With that Secret Divine, 
Now shrouded from sight 

By the Veils of the Shrine ! 

But if 

Here the letters faded away into a dead blank, more aw- 
fully intelligible than the most eloquent words. 



54 THE EPICUREAN. 

A new hope now flashed across me. The dream of the 
Garden, which had been for some time almost forgotten, 
returned freshly to my mind. " Am I then," I exclaimed, 
"in the path to the promised mystery ? and shall the great 
secret of Eternal Life indeed be mine? " 

" Yes ! " seemed to answer out of the air, that spirit- 
voice, which still was heard far off crowning the choir with 
its single sweetness. I hailed the omen with transport. 
Love and Immortality, both beckoning me onward — who 
would give even a thought to fear, with two such bright 
hopes in prospect ? Having invoked and blessed that un- 
known enchantress, whose steps had led me to this abode 
of mystery and knowledge, I instantly plunged into the 
chasm. 

Instead of that vague, spectral twilight which had at 
first met my eye, I now found, as I entered, a thick dark- 
ness, which, though far less horrible, was, at this moment, 
still more disconcerting, as my lamp, which had been, for 
some time, almost useless, was now fast expiring. Resolved, 
however, to make the most of its last gleam, I hastened, 
with rapid step, through this gloomy region, which ap- 
peared to be wider and more open to the air than any I 
had yet passed. Nor was it long before the sudden ap- 
pearance of a bright blaze in the distance announced to 
me that my first great Trial was at hand. As I drew 
nearer, the flames before me burst high and wide on all 
sides ; — and the spectacle that then presented itself was 



THE EPICUREAN. 55 

such as might have daunted even hearts far more accus- 
tomed to dangers than mine. 

There lay before me, extending completely across my 
path, a thicket, or grove of the most combustible trees of 
Egypt — tamarind, pine, and Arabian balm ; while around 
their stems and branches were coiled serpents of fire, 
which, twisting themselves rapidly from bough to bough, 
spread the contagion of their own wild-fire as they went, 
and involved tree after tree in one general blaze. It was, 
indeed, rapid as the burning of those reed-beds of Ethio- 
pia, whose light is seen at a distance, brightening, at night, 
the foamy cataracts of the Nile. 

- Through the middle of this blazing grove, I now per- 
ceived, my only pathway lay. There was not a moment 
to be lost — for the conflagration gained rapidly on either 
side, and already the narrowing path between was strewed 
with vivid fire. Casting away my now useless lamp, and 
holding my robe as some slight protection over my head, 
I ventured, with trembling limbs, into the blaze. 

Instantly, as if my presence had given new life to the 
flames, a fresh outbreak of combustion arose on all sides. 
The trees clustered into a bower of fire above my head, 
while the serpents that hung hissing from the red branches 
shot showers of sparkles down upon me as I passed. 
Never were decision and activity of more avail ; — one 
minute later, and I must have perished. The narrow 
opening, of which I had so promptly availed myself? 



56 THE EPICUREAN. 

closed instantly behind me ; and, as I looked back, to 
contemplate the ordeal which I had passed, I saw that 
the whole grove was already one mass of fire. 

Rejoiced to have escaped this first trial, I instantly 
plucked from one of the pine-trees a bough that was but 
just kindled, and, with this for my only guide, hastened 
breathlessly forward. I had gone but a few paces, when 
the path turned suddenly off, — leading downwards, as I 
could perceive by the glimmer of my brand, into a more 
confined space, through which a chilling air, as if from some 
neighbouring waters, blew over my brow. Nor had I pro- 
ceeded in this course very far, when the sound of torrents 
— mingled, as I thought, from time to time, with shrill wail- 
ings, like the cries of persons in danger or distress — fell 
mournfully upon my ear. At every step the noise of the 
dashing waters increased, and I now perceived that I had 
entered an immense rocky cavern, through the middle of 
which, headlong as a winter-torrent, the flood, to whose 
roar I had been listening, poured its dark waters ; while 
upon its surface floated grim spectre-like shapes, which, 
as they went by, sent forth those dismal shrieks I had 
heard — as if in fear of some awful precipice towards whose 
brink they were hurrying. 

I saw plainly that across that torrent lay my only course. 
It was, indeed, fearful ; but in courage now lay my only 
hope. What awaited me on the opposite shore, I knew 
not ; for all a there was immersed in impenetrable gloom, 



THE EPICUREAN. 51 

nor could the feeble light which I carried send its glim- 
mer half so far. Dismissing, however, all thoughts but 
that of pressing onward, I sprung from the rock on which 
I stood into the flood, — trusting that, with my right hand, 
I should be able to buffet the current, while, with the 
other, as long as a gleam of my brand remained, I might 
hold it aloft to guide me safely to the shore. 

Long, formidable, and almost hopeless was the struggle 
I had now to maintain ; and more than once, overpowered 
by the rush of the waters, I had given myself up as des- 
tined to follow those pale, deathlike apparitions, that still 
went past me, hurrying with mournful cries, to find their 
doom in some invisible gulf beyond. 

At length, just as my strength was nearly exhausted, 
and the last remains of the pine-branch were falling from 
my hand, I saw, outstretching towards me into the water, 
a light double balustrade, with a flight of steps between, 
ascending almost perpendicularly, from the wave, till they 
seemed lost in a dense mass of clouds above. This 
glimpse — for it was nothing more, as my light expired in 
giving it — lent new spring to my courage. Having now 
both hands at liberty, so desperate were my efforts, that, 
after a few minutes' struggle, I felt my brow strike against 
the stairway, and, in another instant, my feet were on the 
steps. 

Rejoiced at my rescue from that perilous flood, though 
I knew not whither this stairway led, I promptly ascended 



58 THE EPICUREAN. 

the steps. But this feeling of confidence was of short dura- 
tion. I had not mounted far, when, to my horror, I perceived, 
that each successive step, as my foot left it, broke away 
from beneath me, — leaving me in mid-air, with no other 
alternative than that of still continuing to mount by the 
same momentary footing, and with the appalling doubt 
whether it would even endure my tread. 

And thus did I, for a few seconds, continue to ascend, 
with nothing beneath me but that awful river, in which — 
so tranquil had it now become — I could hear the plash of 
the falling fragments, as every step in succession gave way 
from under my feet. It was a most trying moment, — but 
even still worse remained. I now found the balustrade, 
by which I had held during my ascent, and which had hi- 
therto seemed firm, grow tremulous in my hand, — while the 
step, to which I was about to trust myself, tottered under 
my foot. Just then, a momentary flash, as if of lightning, 
broke around me, and I perceived, hanging out of the 
clouds, and barely within my reach, a huge brazen ring. 
Instinctively I stretched forth my arm to seize it, and, at 
the same instant, both balustrade and steps gave way be- 
neath me, and I was left swinging by my hands in the dark 
void. As if, too, this massy ring, which I grasped, was by 
some magic power linked with all the winds in heaven, no 
sooner had I seized it than, like the touching of a spring, 
it seemed to give loose to every variety of gusts and tem- 
pests, that ever strewed the sea-shore with wrecks or 




i^Tz^a 






- ■ 



THE EPICUREAN. 59 

dead ; and, as I swung about, the sport of this elemental 
strife, every new burst of its fury threatened to shiver me, 
like a storm-sail, to atoms ! 

Nor was even this the worst ; — for, still holding, I know 
not how, by the ring, I felt myself caught up, as if by a 
thousand whirlwinds, and then, round and round, like 
a stone-shot in a sling, continued to be whirled in the 
midst of all this deafening chaos, till my brain grew dizzy, 
my recollection became confused, and I almost fancied 
myself on that wheel of the infernal world, whose rotations 
Eternity alone can number ! 

Human strength could no longer sustain such a trial. 
I was on the point, at last, of loosing my hold, when sud- 
denly the violence of the storm moderated; — my whirl 
through the air gradually ceased, and I felt the ring slowly 
descend with me, till — happy as a shipwrecked mariner at 
the first touch of land — I found my feet once more upon 
firm ground. 

At the same moment, a light of the most delicious soft- 
ness filled the whole air. Music, such as is heard in 
dreams, came floating at a distance ; and as my eyes gra- 
dually recovered their powers of vision, a scene of glory 
was revealed to them, almost too bright for imagination, 
and yet living and real. As far as the sight could reach, 
enchanting gardens were seen, opening away through long 
tracts of light and verdure, and sparkling every where 
with fountains, that circulated; like streams of life, among 



60 THE EPICUREAN. 

the flowers. Not a charm was here wanting, that the 
fancy of poet or prophet, in their warmest pictures of 
Elysium, have ever yet dreamed or promised. Vistas, 
opening into scenes of indistinct grandeur, — streams, 
shining out at intervals, in their shadowy course, — and 
labyrinths of flowers, leading, by mysterious windings, to 
green, spacious glades full of splendour and repose. 
Over all this, too, there fell a light, from some unseen 
source, resembling nothing that illumines our upper world 
— a sort of golden moonlight, mingling the warm radiance 
of day with the calm and melancholy lustre of night. 

Nor were there wanting inhabitants for this sunless 
Paradise. Through all the bright gardens were wander- 
ing, with the serene air and step of happy spirits, groups 
both of young and old, of venerable and of lovely forms, 
bearing, most of them, the Nile's white flowers on their 
heads, and branches of the eternal palm in their hands ; 
while, over the verdant turf, fair children and maidens 
went dancing to aerial music, whose source was, like that 
of the light, invisible, but which rilled the whole air with 
its mystic sweetness. 

Exhausted as I was by the painful trials I had under- 
gone, no sooner did I perceive those fair groups in the 
distance, than my weariness, both of frame and spirit, was 
forgotten. A thought crossed me that she, whom I sought, 
might possibly be among them ; and notwithstanding the 
awe, with which that unearthly scene inspired me, I was 



THE EPICUREAN. 61 

about to fly, on the instant, to ascertain my hope. But 
in the act of making the effort, I felt my robe gently 
pulled, and turning, beheld an aged man before me, 
whom, by the sacred hue of his garb, I knew to be a 
Hierophant. Placing a branch of the consecrated palm 
in my hand, he said, in a solemn voice, " Aspirant of the 
Mysteries, welcome ! " — Then,' regarding me for a few se- 
conds with grave attention, added, in a tone of courteous- 
ness and interest, " The victory over the body hath been 
gained ! — Follow me, young Greek, to thy resting-place." 
I obeyed in silence, — and the Priest, turning away from 
this scene of splendour, into a secluded path, where the 
light faded away, as we advanced, conducted me to a small 
pavilion, by the side of a whispering stream, where the 
very spirit of slumber seemed to preside, and, pointing si- 
lently to a bed of dried poppy-leaves, left me to repose. 



62 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



Though the sight of that splendid scene whose glories 
opened upon me, like a momentary glimpse into another 
world, had, for an instant, reanimated my strength and 
spirit, yet, so completely was my whole frame subdued by 
fatigue, that, even had the form of the young Priestess 
herself then stood before me, my limbs would have sunk 
in the effort to reach her. No sooner had I fallen on my 
leafy couch, than sleep, like a sudden death, came over 
me ; and I lay, for hours, in that deep and motionless 
rest, which not even a shadow of life disturbs. 

On awaking I saw, beside me, the same venerable per- 
sonage, who had welcomed me to this subterranean world 
on the preceding night. At the foot of my couch stood 
a statue, of Grecian workmanship, representing a boy, 
with wings, seated gracefully on a lotus-flower, and having 
the forefinger of his right hand pressed to his lips. This 
action, together with the glory round his brows, denoted, 
as I already knew, the God of Silence and Light. 

Impatient to know what further trials awaited me, I 



THE EPICUREAN. 63 

was about to speak, when the Priest exclaimed, anxiously, 
" Hush!" — and, pointing to the statue at the foot of the 
couch, said, — " Let the spell of that Spirit be upon thy 
lips, young stranger, till the wisdom of thy instructors 
shall think fit to remove it. Not unaptly doth the same 
deity preside over Silence and Light; since it is only out 
of the depth of contemplative silence, that the great light 
of the soul, Truth, can arise ! " 

Little used to the language of dictation or instruction, 
I was now preparing to rise, when the Priest again re- 
strained me ; and, at the same moment, two boys, beauti- 
ful as the young Genii of the stars, entered the pavilion. 
They were habited in long garments of the purest white, 
and bore each a small golden chalice in his hand. Ad- 
vancing towards me, they stopped on opposite sides of the 
couch, and one of them, presenting me his chalice of gold, 
said, in a tone between singing and speaking, — 

" Drink of this cup— Osiris sips 
The same in his halls below ; 
And the same he gives, to cool the lips 
Of the Dead who downward go. 

" Drink of this cup — the water within 

]s fresh from Lethe's stream ; 
'Twill make the past, with all its sin, 

And all its pain and sorrows, seem 
Like a long-forgotten dream ! 

" The pleasure, whose charms 
Are steep'd in woe ; 
The knowledge, that harms 
The soul to know ; 



64 THE EPICUREAN. 

" The hope, that, bright 
As the lake of the waste, 
Allures the sight, 
But mocks the taste ; 

" The love that binds 
Its innocent wreath, 
Where the serpent winds, 
In venom, beneath ; — 

" All that, of evil or false, by thee 
Hath ever been known or seen, 
Shall melt away in this cup, and be 
Forgot, as it never had been ! " 

Unwilling to throw a slight on this strange ceremony, 
I leaned forward, with all due gravity, and tasted the cup ; 
which I had no sooner done than the young cup-bearer, 
on the other side, invited my attention ; and, in his turn, 
presenting the chalice which he held, sung, with a voice 
still sweeter than that of his companion, the following 
strain : — 

" Drink of this cup — when Isis led 1 

Her boy, of old to the beaming sky, 

She mingled a draught divine, and said — 

* Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die I ' 

" Thus do I say and sing to thee, 

Heir of that boundless heav'n on high, 

Though frail, and fall'n, and lost thou be, 

Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die ! " 

Much as I had endeavoured to keep my philosophy on 
its guard, against the illusions with which, I knew, this 
region abounded, the young cup-bearer had here touched 



THE EPICUREAN. 65 

a spring of imagination, over which my philosophy, as has 
been seen, had but little control. No sooner had the 
words, " thou shalt never die," struck on my ear, than the 
dream of the Garden came fully to my mind, and, starting 
half-way from the couch, I stretched forth my hands to 
the cup. Instantly, however, recollecting myself, and 
fearing I had betrayed to others a weakness fit only 
for my own secret indulgence, with a smile of affected 
indifference I sunk back again on my couch, — while the 
young minstrel, but little interrupted by my movement, 
still continued his strain, of which I heard but the con- 
cluding words : — 

" And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, 
Dreams of a former, happier day, 
When Heaven was still the Spirit's home, 
And her wings had not yet fallen away; 

" Glimpses of glory, ne'er forgot, 

That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, 

What once hath been, what now is not, 

But, oh, what again shall brightly be. " 

Though the assurances of immortality contained in these 
verses would at any other moment — vain and visionary as 
I thought them — have sent my fancy wandering into re- 
veries of the future, the effort of self control I had just 
made enabled me to hear them with indifference. 

Having gone through the form of tasting this second 
cup, I again looked anxiously to the Hierophant, to as- 

F 



66 THE EPICUREAN. 

certain whether I might be permitted to rise. His assent 
having been given, the young pages brought to my couch 
a robe and tunic, which, like their own, were of linen of 
the purest white; and having assisted to clothe me in 
this sacred garb, they then placed upon my head a chap- 
let of myrtle, in which the symbol of Initiation, a golden 
grasshopper, was seen shining out from among the dark 
leaves. 

Though sleep had done much to refresh my frame, 
something more was still wanting to restore its strength ; 
and it was not without a smile at my own reveries I re- 
flected how much more welcome than even the young 
page's cup of immortality was the unpretending, but real, 
repast now set before me, consisting of fresh fruits from 
the Isle of Gardens in the Nile, the delicate flesh of 
the desert antelope, and wine from the Vineyard of the 
Queens at Anthylla, which one of the pages fanned with 
a palm-leaf, to keep it cool. 

Having done justice to these dainties, it was with plea- 
sure I heard the proposal of the Priest, that we should 
walk forth together and meditate among the scenes with- 
out. I had not forgotten the splendid Elysium that last 
night welcomed me, — those rich gardens, that soft, un- 
earthly music and light, and, above all, those fair forms 
I had seen wandering about,— as if, in the very midst 
of happiness, still seeking it. The hope, which had 
then occurred to me, that, among those bright groups, 



THE EPICUREAN. 67 

might possibly be found the young maiden I sought, now 
returned with increased strength. I had little donbt that 
my guide was leading me to the same Elysian scene, and 
that the form, so fit to inhabit it, would again appear be- 
fore my eyes. 

But far different, I found, was the region to which he 
now conducted me; — nor could the whole world have 
produced a scene more gloomy, or more strange. It had 
the appearance of a small, solitary valley, enclosed, on 
every side, by rocks, which seemed to rise, almost per- 
pendicularly, till they reached the very sky ; — for it was, 
indeed, the blue sky that I saw shining between their 
summits, and whose light, dimmed and nearly lost, in its 
descent thus far, formed the melancholy daylight of this 
nether world.* Down the side of these rocky walls de- 
scended a cataract, whose source was upon earth, and on 
whose waters, as they rolled glassily over the edge above, 
a gleam of radiance rested, showing how brilliant and pure 
was the sunshine they had left behind. From thence, 
gradually growing darker and frequently broken, in its 
long descent, by alternate chasms and projections, the 
stream fell, at last, in a pale and thin mist — the phantom 



* "On s'etait meme avise, depuis la premiere construction de ces 

demeures, de percer en plusieurs endroits jusqu'au haut les terres qui 

les couvroient ; non pas a la v£rite, pour tirer un jour qui n'auroit 

jamais ete sufiisant, mais pour recevoir un air salutaire, &c."— Setiios. 

F 2 



68 THE EPICUREAN. 

of what it had been on earth — into a small still lake that 
lay at the base of the rock to receive it. 

Nothing was ever so bleak and saddening as the ap- 
pearance of this lake- The usual ornaments of the waters 
of Egypt were not wanting to it : the tall lotus here up- 
lifted her silvery flowers, and the crimson flamingo floated 
over the tide. But they looked not the same as in the 
world above ; — the flower had exchanged its whiteness 
for a livid hue, and the wings of the bird hung heavy 
and colourless. Every thing wore the same half-living 
aspect ; and the only sounds that disturbed the mournful 
stillness were the wailing cry of a heron among the 
sedges, and that din of the falling waters, in their mid- 
way struggle, above. 

There was, indeed, an unearthly sadness in the whole 
scene, of which no heart, however light, could resist the 
influence. Perceiving how I was affected by it, " Such 
scenes," remarked the Priest, " suit best that solemn 
complexion of mind, which becomes him who approaches 
the Great Mystery of futurity. Behold," — and, in saying 
thus, he pointed to the opening over our heads, through 
which, though the sun had but just passed his meridian, 
I could perceive a star or two twinkling in the heavens, — 
" as from this gloomy depth we can see those fixed stars, 
which are invisible now to the dwellers upon the bright 
earth, even so, to the sad and self-humbled spirit, doth 



THE EPICUREAN. 69 

many a mystery of heaven reveal itself, of which they, 
who walk in the light of the proud world, know not I" 

He now led me towards a rustic seat or alcove, beside 
which stood an image of that dark Deity, that God with- 
out a smile, who presides over the silent kingdom of the 
Dead.* The same livid and lifeless hue was upon his 
features, that seemed to hang over every thing in this 
dim valley ; and, with his right hand, he pointed directly 
downwards, to denote that his melancholy kingdom lay 
there. A plantain — that favourite tree of the genii of 
Death — stood behind the statue, and spread its branches 
over the alcove, in which the Priest now seated himself, 
and made sign that I should take my place by his side. 

After a long pause, as if of thought and preparation, — 
" Nobly/' said he, " young Greek, hast thou sustained 
the first trials of Initiation. What still remains, though 
of vital import to the soul, brings with it neither pain nor 
peril to the body. Having now proved and chastened 
thy mortal frame, by the three ordeals of Fire, of Water, 
and of Air, the next task to which we are called is the 
purification of thy spirit, — the cleansing of that inward 
and immortal part, so as to render it fit for the reception 
of the last luminous revealment, when the Veils of the 
Sanctuary shall be thrown aside, and the Great Secret of 
Secrets unfolded to thy view! — Towards this object, the 

* Osiris. 



70 THE EPICUREAN. 

primary and most important step is, instruction. What 
the three purifying elements thou hast passed through, 
have done for thy body, instruction will effect for " 

" But that lovely maiden !" I exclaimed, bursting from 
my silence, having fallen, during his speech, into a deep 
reverie, in which I had forgotten him, myself, the Great 
Secret, every thing — but her. 

Startled by this profane interruption, he cast a look of 
alarm towards the statue, as if fearful lest the God should 
have heard my words. Then, turning to me, in a tone of 
mild solemnity, " It is but too plain," said he, " that 
thoughts of the vain, upper world, and of its shadowy de- 
lights, still engross thee far too much, to allow the lessons 
of Truth to sink profitably into thy heart. A few hours of 
meditation amid this solemn scenery — of that wholesome 
meditation, which purifies, by saddening — may haply 
dispose thee to receive, with due feelings of reverence, the 
holy and imperishable knowledge that is in store for thee* 
With this hope I now leave thee to thy own thoughts, 
and to that God, before whose calm and mournful eye 
all the vanities of the world, from which thou comest, 
wither ! " 

Thus saying, he turned slowly away, and passing be- 
hind the statue, towards which he had pointed during the 
last sentence, suddenly, and as if by enchantment, disap- 
peared from my sight. 



THE EPICUREAN. 71 



CHAPTER IX. 



Being now left to my own solitary thoughts, I had full 
leisure to reflect, with some degree of coolness, upon the 
inconveniences, if not dangers, of the situation into which 
my love of adventure had hurried me. However prompt 
my imagination was to kindle, in its own ideal sphere, 
I have ever found that, when brought into contact with 
reality, it as suddenly cooled ; — like those meteors, that 
appear to be stars, while in the air, but, the moment they 
touch earth, are extinguished. And such was the feeling 
of disenchantment that now succeeded to the wild dreams 
in which I had been indulging. As long as fancy had the 
field of the future to herself, even immortality did not 
seem too distant a race for her. But when human in- 
struments interposed, the illusion all vanished. From 
mortal lips the promise of immortality seemed a mockery, 
nor had imagination herself any wings that could carry 
beyond the grave. 

Nor was this disappointment the only feeling that oc- 
cupied me ; — the imprudence of the step, on which I had 



72 THE EPICUREAN. 

ventured, now appeared in its full extent before my eyes. 
I had here thrown myself into the power of the most art- 
ful priesthood in the world, without a chance of being 
able to escape from their toils, or to resist any machina- 
tions with which they might beset me. It appeared evi- 
dent, from the state of preparation in which I had found 
all that wonderful apparatus, by which the terrors and 
splendours of Initiation are produced, that my descent 
into the pyramid was not unexpected. Numerous, in- 
deed, and active as were the spies of the Sacred College 
of Memphis, it could little be doubted that all my move- 
ments, since my arrival, had been watchfully tracked; and 
the many hours I had employed in wandering and explor- 
ing around the pyramid, betrayed a curiosity and spirit of 
adventure which might well suggest to these wily priests 
the hope of inveigling an Epicurean into their supersti- 
tious toils. 

I was well aware of their hatred to the sect of which 
I was Chief; — that they considered the Epicureans as, 
next to the Christians, the most formidable enemies of 
their craft and power. " How thoughtless, then," I 
felt, " to have placed myself in a situation, where 
I am equally helpless against their fraud and violence, 
and must either pretend to be the dupe of their impos- 
tures, or else submit to become the victim of their venge- 
ance I" Of these alternatives, bitter as they were, the lat- 
ter appeared by far the more welcome. It was with a blush 



THE EPICUREAN. 73 

that I even looked back upon the mockeries I had already 
yielded to ; and the prospect of being put through still 
further ceremonials, and of being tutored and preached to 
by hypocrites I so much despised, appeared to me, in my 
present temper, a trial of patience, to which the flames 
and whirlwinds I had already encountered were but 
pastime. 

Often and impatiently did I look up, between those 
rocky walls, to the bright sky that appeared to rest upon 
their summits, as, pacing round and round, through every 
part of the valley, I endeavoured to find some outlet from 
its gloomy precincts . But vain were all my endeavours ; — 
that rocky barrier, which seemed to end but in heaven, in- 
terposed itself every where. Neither did the image of the 
young maiden, though constantly in my mind, now bring 
with it the least consolation or hope. Of what avail was 
it that she, perhaps, was an inhabitant of this region, if 
I could neither behold her smile, nor catch the sound of her 
voice, — if, while among preaching priests I wasted away 
my hours, her presence was, alas, diffusing its enchant- 
ment elsewhere. 

At length exhausted, I lay down by the brink of the 
lake, and gave myself up to all the melancholy of my 
fancy. The pale semblance of daylight, which had hitherto 
glimmered around, grew, every moment, more dim and 
dismal. Even the rich gleam, at the summit of the cas- 
cade, had faded; and the sunshine, like the water, ex- 



74 THE EPICUREAN. 

hausted in its descent, had now dwindled into a ghostly 
glimmer, far worse than darkness. The birds upon the 
lake, as if about to die with the dying light, sunk down 
their heads ; and as I looked to the statue, the deepening 
shadows gave such an expression to its mournful features 
as chilled my very soul. 

The thought of death, ever ready to present itself to 
my imagination, now came, with a disheartening weight, 
such as I had never before felt. I almost fancied myself 
already in the dark vestibule of the grave, — separated, for 
ever, from the world above, and with nothing but the 
blank of an eternal sleep before me. It had often, 
I knew, happened that the visitants of this mysterious 
realm were, after their descent from earth, never seen or 
heard of; — being condemned, for some failure in their 
initiatory trials, to pine a way their lives in those dark 
dungeons, with which, as well as with altars, this region 
abounded. Such, I shuddered to think, might probably 
be my own destiny ; and so appalling was the thought, that 
even the spirit by which I had been hitherto sustained 
died within me, and I was already giving myself up to 
helplessness and despair. 

At length, after some hours of this gloomy musing, 
I heard a rustling in the sacred grove behind the statue ; 
and, soon after, the sound of the Priest's voice — more 
welcome than I had ever thought such voice could be — 
brought the assurance that I was not yet, at least, wholly 



THE EPICUREAN. 75 

abandoned. Finding his way to me through the gloom, 
he now led me to the spot, on which we had parted so 
many hours before ; and, addressing me in a voice that 
retained no trace of displeasure, bespoke my attention, 
while he should reveal to me some of those divine truths, 
by whose infusion, he said, into the soul of man, its puri- 
fication can alone be effected. 

The valley had now become so dark, that we were no 
longer able to discern each other's faces. There was a 
melancholy in the voice of my instructor that well ac- 
corded with the gloom around us: and, saddened and 
subdued, I now listened with resignation, if not with 
interest, to those sublime, but, alas, I thought, vain 
tenets, which, with all the warmth of a true believer, 
this Hierophant expounded to me. 

He spoke of the pre-existence of the soul, — of its abode, 
from all eternity, in a place of splendour and bliss, of 
which all that we have most beautiful in our conceptions 
here is but a dim transcript, a clouded remembrance. In 
the blue depths of ether, he said, lay that " Country of the 
Soul," — its boundary alone visible in that line of milky 
light, which separates it, as by a barrier of stars, from the 
dark earth. " Oh, realm of purity ! Home of the yet un- 
fallen Spirit ! — where, in the days of her first innocence, 
she wandered ; ere yet her beauty was soiled by the touch 
of earth, or her resplendent wings had begun to wither 
away, Methinks I see," he cried, " at this moment, those 



76 THE EPICUREAN. 

fields of radiance, — I look back, through the mists of life, 
into that luminous world, where the souls that have never 
lost their high, heavenly rank, still soar, without a stain, 
above the shadowless stars, and there dwell together in 
infinite perfection and bliss 1" 

As he spoke these words, a burst of pure, brilliant light, 
like a sudden opening of heaven, broke through the val- 
ley ; and, as soon as my eyes were able to endure the 
splendour, such a vision of glory and loveliness opened 
upon them, as took even my sceptical spirit by surprise, 
and made it yield, at once, to the potency of the spell. 

Suspended, as I thought, in air, and occupying the 
whole of the opposite region of the valley, there appeared 
an immense orb of light, within which, through a haze of 
radiance, I could see distinctly fair groups of young female 
spirits, who, in silent, but harmonious movement, like that 
of the stars, wound slowly through a variety of fanciful 
evolutions; seeming, as they linked and unlinked each 
other's arms, to form a living labyrinth of beauty and grace. 
Though their feet appeared to glide along a field of light, 
they had also wings, of the most brilliant hue, which, like 
rainbows over waterfalls, when played with by the breeze, 
reflected, every moment, a new variety of glory. 

As I stood, gazing with wonder, the orb, with all its 
ethereal inmates, began gradually to recede into the dark 
void, lessening, as it went, and becoming more bright, as 
it lessened ; — till, at length, distant, to all appearance, as 



THE EPICUREAN. 77 

a retiring comet, this little world of Spirits, in one small 
point of intense radiance, shone its last and vanished. 
" Go," exclaimed the rapt Priest, " ye happy souls, of 
whose dwelling a glimpse is thus given to our eyes, go, 
wander, in your orb, through the boundless heaven, nor 
ever let a thought of this perishable world come to mingle 
its dross with your divine nature, or allure you down 
earthward to that mortal fall by which spirits, no less 
bright and admirable, have been ruined !" 

A pause ensued, during which, still under the influence 
of wonder, I sent my fancy wandering after the inhabit- 
ants of that orb, — almost wishing myself credulous enough 
to believe in a heaven, of which creatures, so much like 
those I worshipped upon earth, were inmates. 

At length, the Priest, with a mournful sigh at the sad 
contrast he was about to draw between the happy spirits 
we had just seen and the fallen ones of earth, resumed 
again his melancholy History of the Soul. Tracing it gra- 
dually from the first moment of earthward desire, to 
its final eclipse in the shadows of this world, he dwelt 
upon every stage of its darkening descent, with a pathos 
that sent sadness into the very depths of the heart. The 
first downward look of the Spirit towards earth — the 
tremble of her wings on the edge of Heaven — the giddy 
slide, at length, down that fatal descent, and the Lethean 
cup, midway in the sky, of which when she has once 
tasted, Heaven is forgot, — through all these gradations he 



/O THE EPICUREAN. 

traced mournfully her fall, to the last stage of darkness, 
when, wholly immersed in this world, her celestial nature 
is changed, she no longer can rise above earth, nor can re- 
member her former home, but by glimpses so vague, that, 
at length, mistaking for hope what is only recollection, 
she believes them to be a light from the Future, not the 
Past. 

" To retrieve this ruin of the once blessed Soul, — to 
clear away from around her the clouds of earth, and, re- 
storing her lost wings,* facilitate their return to Heaven, 
— such," said the reverend man, " is the great task of our 
religion, and such the triumph of those divine Mysteries, 
in whose inmost depths the life and essence of our holy 
religion lie treasured. However sunk and changed and 
clouded may be the Spirit, yet as long as a single trace of 
her original light remains, there is still hope that " 

Here his voice was interrupted by a strain of mournful 
music, of which the low, distant breathings had been, for 
some minutes, heard, but which now gained upon the ear 
too thrillingly to let it listen to any more earthly sound. 
A faint light, too, at that instant broke through the val- 
ley, — and I could perceive, not far from the spot where 
we sat, a female figure, veiled, and crouching to earth, as 
if subdued by sorrow, or under the influence of shame. 

The feeble light, by which I saw her, came from a pale, 

* In the language of Plato, Hierocles, &c., to " restore to the soul 
its wings," is the main object both of religion and philosophy. 



THE EPICUREAN. 79 

moonlike meteor, which had gradually formed itself in the 
air as the music approached, and now shed over the rocks 
and the lake a glimmer as cold as that by which the Dead, 
in their own kingdom, gaze upon each other, The music, 
too, which appeared to rise directly out of the lake, and 
to come full of the breath of its dark waters, spoke a 
despondency in every note which no language could ex- 
press ; — and, as I listened to its tones, and looked upon 
that fallen Spirit, (for such, the holy man whispered, was 
the form before us,) so entirely did the illusion of the 
scene take possession of me, that, with breathless anxiety, 
I now awaited the result. 

Nor had I gazed long before that form rose slowly from 
its drooping position ;-— the air around it grew bright, and 
the pale meteor overhead assumed a more cheerful and 
living light. The veil, which had before shrouded the 
face of the figure, became every minute more transparent, 
and the features, one by one, gradually disclosed them- 
selves. Having tremblingly watched the progress of the 
apparition, I now started from my seat, and half ex- 
claimed, " It is she !" In another minute, this veil had, 
like a thin mist, melted away, and the young Priestess of 
the Moon stood, for the third time, revealed before my 
eyes ! 

To rush instantly towards her was my first impulse — 
but the arm of the Priest held me firmly back. The 
fresh light, which had begun to flow in from all sides, col- 



80 THE EPICUREAN. 

lected itself in a glory round the spot where she stood. 
Instead of melancholy music, strains of the most exalted 
rapture were heard ; and the young maiden, buoyant as 
the inhabitants of the fairy orb, amid a blaze of light like 
that which fell upon her in the Temple, ascended into 
the air. 

" Stay, beautiful vision, stay ! " I exclaimed, as, break- 
ing from the hold of the Priest, I flung myself prostrate 
on the ground, — the only mode by which I could express 
the admiration, even to worship, with which I was rilled. 
But the vanishing spirit heard me not : — receding into 
the darkness, like that orb, whose track she seemed to 
follow, her form lessened away, till she was seen no more. 
Gazing, till the last luminous speck had disappeared, 
I suffered myself unconsciously to be led away by my 
reverend guide, who, placing me once more on my bed of 
poppy-leaves, left me to such repose as it was now possible, 
after such a scene, to enjoy. 



THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER X. 



The apparition with which I had been blessed in that 
Valley of Visions — for so the place where I had witnessed 
these wonders was called — brought back to my heart all 
the hopes and fancies, in which during my descent from 
earth I had indulged. I had now seen once more that 
matchless creature, who had been my guiding star into 
this mysterious world ; and that she must be, in some 
way, connected with the further revelations that awaited 
me, I saw no reason to doubt. There was a sublimity, 
too, in the doctrines of my reverend teacher, and even 
a hope in the promises of immortality held out by him, 
which, in spite of reason, won insensibly both upon my 
fancy and my pride. 

The Future, however, was now but of secondary con- 
sideration ; — the Present, and that deity of the Present, 
woman, were the objects that engrossed my whole soul. 
For the sake, indeed, of such beings alone did I consider 
immortality desirable, nor, without them, would eternal 
life have appeared to me worth a prayer. To every fur- 



82 THE EPICUREAN. 

ther trial of my patience and faith, I now made up my 
mind to submit without a murmur. Some kind chance, 
I fondly persuaded myself, might yet bring me nearer 
to the object of my adoration, and enable me to address, 
as mortal woman, one who had hitherto been to me but 
as a vision, a shade. 

The period of my probation, however, was nearly at an 
end. Both frame and spirit had now been tried -, and, as 
the crowning test of the purification of the latter was that 
power of seeing into the world of spirits, with which I had 
proved myself, in the Valley of Visions, to be endowed, 
there remained now, to perfect my Initiation, but this one 
night more, when, in the Temple of Isis, and in the pre- 
sence of her unveiled image, the last grand revelation of 
the Secret of Secrets was to be laid open to me. 

T passed the morning of this day in company with the 
same venerable personage, who had, from the first, pre- 
sided over the ceremonies of my instruction ; and who, 
to inspire me with due reverence for the power and mag- 
nificence of his religion, now conducted me through the 
long range of illuminated galleries and shrines, that ex- 
tend under the site upon which Memphis and the Pyra- 
mids stand, and form a counterpart under ground to that 
mighty city of temples upon earth. 

He then descended with me, still lower, into those 
winding crypts, where lay the Seven Tables of stone, 
found by Hermes in the valley of Hebron. " On these 



THE EPICUREAN. 83 

tables," said he, " is written all the knowledge of the 
antediluvian race, — the decrees of the stars from the be- 
ginning of time, the annals of a still earlier world, and all 
the marvellous secrets, both of heaven and earth, which 
would have been 

' but for this key, 
Lost in the Universal Sea.' " 

Returning to the region, from which we had descended, 
we next visited, in succession, a series of small shrines 
representing the various objects of adoration through 
Egypt, and thus furnishing to the Priest an occasion for 
explaining the mysterious nature of animal worship, and 
the refined doctrines of theology that lay veiled under its 
forms. Every shrine was consecrated to a particular faith, 
and contained a living image of the deity which it adored. 
Beside the goat of Mendes, with his refulgent star upon 
his breast, I saw the crocodile, as presented to the eyes of 
its idolaters at Arsinoe, with costly gems in its loathsome 
ears, and rich bracelets of gold encircling its feet. Here, 
floating through a tank in the centre of a temple, the 
sacred carp of Lepidotum showed its silvery scales ; 
while, there, the Isiac serpents trailed languidly over the 
altar, with that sort of movement which is thought most 
favourable to the aspirations of their votaries. In one of 
the small chapels we found a beautiful child, feeding and 
watching over those golden beetles, which are adored for 
their brightness, as emblems of the sun ; while, in ano- 
g 2 



84 THE EPICUREAN. 

ther, stood a sacred ibis upon its pedestal, so like, in 
plumage and attitude, to the bird of the young Priestess, 
that most gladly would I have knelt down and worshipped 
it for her sake. 

After visiting all these various shrines, and hearing the 
reflections which they suggested, I was next led by my 
guide to the Great Hall of the Zodiac, on whose ceiling, 
in bright and undying colours, was delineated the map of 
the firmament, as it appeared at the first dawn of time. 
Here, in pointing out the track of the sun among the 
spheres, he spoke of the analogy that exists between 
moral and physical darkness — of the sympathy with which 
all spiritual creatures regard the sun, so as to sadden and 
decline when he sinks into his wintry hemisphere, and to 
rejoice when he resumes his own empire of light. Hence, 
the festivals and hymns, with which most of the nations 
of the earth are wont to welcome the resurrection of his 
orb in spring, as an emblem and pledge of the reascent 
of the soul to heaven. Hence, the songs of sorrow, the 
mournful ceremonies, — like those Mysteries of the Night, 
upon the Lake of Sais, — in which they brood over his 
autumnal descent into the shades, as a type of the Spirit's 
fall into this world of death. 

In discourses such as these the hours passed away ; and 
though there was nothing in the light of this sunless re- 
gion to mark to the eye the decline of day, my own feel- 
ings told me that the night drew near ; — nor, in spite of 



THE EPICUREAN. 85 

my incredulity, could I refrain from a slight flutter of 
hope, as that promised moment of revelation approached, 
when the Mystery of Mysteries was to be made all my 
own. This consummation, however, was less near than 
I expected. My patience had still further trials to en- 
counter. It was necessary, I now found, that, during the 
greater part of the night, I should keep watch in the 
Sanctuary of the Temple, alone and in utter darkness, — 
thus preparing myself, by meditation, for the awful mo- 
ment, when the irradiation from behind the sacred Veils 
was to burst upon me. 

At the appointed hour, we left the Hall of the Zodiac, 
and proceeded through a long line of marble galleries, 
where the lamps were more thinly scattered as we ad- 
vanced, till, at length, we found ourselves in total dark- 
ness. Here the Priest, taking me by the hand, and lead- 
ing me down a flight of steps, into a place where the same 
deep gloom prevailed, said, with a voice trembling, as if 
from excess of awe, — " Thou art now within the Sanctuary 
of our goddess, Isis, and the veils, that conceal her sacred 
image, are before thee ! " 

After exhorting me earnestly to that train of thought, 
which best accorded with the spirit of the place where 
I stood, and, above all, to that full and unhesitating faith, 
with which alone, he said, the manifestation of such mys- 
teries should be approached, the holy man took leave of 
me, and reascended the steps ; — while, so spell-bound did 



86 THE EPICUREAN, 

I feel by that deep darkness, that the last sound of his 
footsteps died upon my ear, before I ventured to stir 
a limb from the position in which he had left me. 

The prospect of the long watch I had now to look for- 
ward to was dreadful. Even danger itself, if in an active 
form, would have been far preferable to this sort of safe, 
but dull, probation, by which patience was the only virtue 
put to the proof. Having ascertained how far the space 
around me was free from obstacles, I endeavoured to be- 
guile the time by pacing up and down within those limits, 
till I became tired of the monotonous echoes of my own 
tread. Finding my way, then, to what I felt to be a massive 
pillar, and, leaning wearily against it, I surrendered myself 
to a train of thoughts and feelings, far different from those 
with which the good Hierophant had hoped to inspire me. 

" Why," I again asked, " if these priests possess the 
secret of life, why are they themselves the victims of 
death ? why sink into the grave with the cup of immorta- 
lity in their hands ? But no, safe boasters, the eternity 
they so lavishly promise is reserved for another, a future 
world — that ready resource of all priestly promises — that 
depository of the airy pledges of all creeds. Another 
world ! — alas, where does it lie ? or, what spirit hath ever 
come to say that Life is there?" 

The conclusion at which, half sadly, half passionately, 
I arrived, was that, life being but a dream of the moment 
never to come again, every bliss so vaguely promised for 



THE EPICUREAN. 87 

hereafter ought to be secured by the wise man here. And, 
as no heaven I had ever heard of from these visionary priests 
opened half such certainty of happiness as that smile which 
I beheld last night, — " Let me," I exclaimed, impatiently, 
striking the massy pillar till it rung, " let me but make 
that beautiful Priestess my own, and I here willingly ex- 
change for her every chance of immortality, that the com- 
bined wisdom of Egypt's Twelve Temples can offer me ! " 

No sooner had I uttered these words, than a tremen- 
dous peal, like that of thunder, rolled over the Sanctuary, 
and seemed to shake its very walls. On every side, too, 
a succession of blue, vivid flashes pierced, like lances of 
light, through the gloom, revealing to me, at intervals, the 
mighty dome in which I stood, — its ceiling of azure, 
studded with stars, — its colossal columns, towering aloft, 
and those dark, awful veils, whose massy drapery hung 
from the roof to the floor, covering the rich glories of the 
Shrine beneath their folds. 

So weary had I grown of my tedious watch, that this 
stormy and fitful illumination, during which the Sanctuary 
seemed to rock to its base, was by no means an unwelcome 
interruption of the monotonous trial my patience had to 
suffer. After a short interval, however, the flashes ceased ; 
— the sounds died away, like exhausted thunder, through 
the abyss, and darkness and silence, like that of the grave, 
succeeded. 

Resting my back once more against the pillar, and fix- 



88 THE EPICUREAN. 

ing my eyes upon that side of the Sanctuary, from which 
the promised irradiation was to burst, I now resolved to 
await the awful moment in patience. Resigned and almost 
immovable, I had remained thus, for nearly another hour, 
when suddenly, along the edges of the mighty Veils, I per- 
ceived a thin rim of light, as if from some brilliant object 
under them ; — resembling that border which encircles 
a cloud at sunset, when the rich radiance from behind is 
escaping at its edges. 

This indication of concealed glories grew every instant 
more strong ; till, at last, vividly marked as it was upon 
the darkness, the narrow fringe of lustre almost pained 
the eye, giving promise of a fulness of splendour too bright 
to be endured. My expectations were now wound to the 
highest pitch, and all the scepticism, into which I had been 
cooling down my mind, was forgotten. The wonders that 
had been presented to me since my descent from earth, — 
that glimpse into Elysium on the first night of my coming, 
— those visitants from the Land of Spirits in the myste- 
rious valley, — all led me to expect, in this last and brightest 
revelation, such visions of glory and knowledge as might 
transcend even fancy itself, nor leave a doubt that they 
belonged less to earth than heaven. 

While, with an imagination thus excited, I stood waiting 
the result, an increased gush of light still more awakened 
my attention ; and I saw, with an intenseness of interest, 
which made my heart beat aloud, one of the corners of the 



THE EP1CUREAX. 89 

mighty Veil slowly raised. I now felt that the Great 
Secret, whatever it might be, was at hand. A vague hope 
even crossed my mind — so wholly had imagination now 
resumed her empire — that the splendid promise of my 
dream was on the very point of being realized 1 

With surprise, however, and, for the moment, with some 
disappointment, I perceived, that the massy corner of the 
Veil was but lifted sufficiently from the ground to allow 
a female figure to emerge from under it, — and then fell 
over its mystic splendours as utterly dark as before. By 
the strong light, too, that issued when the drapery was 
raised, and illuminated the profile of the emerging figure, 
I either saw, or fancied that I saw, the same bright fea- 
tures, that had already so often mocked me with their 
momentary charm, and seemed destined to haunt my 
fancy as unavailingly as even the fond, vain dream of 
Immortality itself. 

Dazzled as I had been by that short gush of splendour, 
and distrusting even my senses, when under the influence 
of an imagination so much excited, I had but just begun to 
question myself as to the reality of my impression, when 
I heard the sounds of light footsteps approaching me 
through the gloom. In a second or two more, the figure 
stopped before me, and, placing the end of a riband gently 
in my hand, said, in a tremulous whisper, " Follow, and 
be silent." 

So sudden and strange was the adventure, that, for 



90 THE EPICUREAN. 

a moment, I hesitated, — fearing that my eyes might pos- 
sibly have been deceived as to the object they had seen. 
Casting a look towards the Veil, which seemed bursting 
with its luminous secret, I was almost doubting to which of 
the two chances I should commit myself, when I felt the 
riband in my hand pulled softly at the other extremity. 
This movement, like a touch of magic, at once decided me. 
Without any further deliberation, I yielded to the silent 
summons, and following my guide, who was already at 
some distance before me, found myself led up the same 
flight of marble steps, by which the Priest had conducted 
me into the Sanctuary. Arrived at their summit, I felt 
the pace of my conductress quicken, and giving one more 
look to the Veiled Shrine, whose glories we left burning 
uselessly behind us, hastened onward into the gloom, full 
of confidence in the belief, that she, who now held the 
other end of that clue, was one whom I was ready to fol- 
low devotedly through the world. 



THE EPICUREAN. 91 



CHAPTER XL 



With such rapidity was I hurried along by my unseen 
guide, full of wonder at [the speed with which she ventured 
through these labyrinths, that I had but little time left for 
reflection upon the strangeness of the adventure in which 
I had embarked. My knowledge of the character of the 
Memphian priests, as well as some fearful rumours that 
had reached me, concerning the fate that often attended 
unbelievers in their hands, awakened a momentary suspi- 
cion of treachery in my mind. But, when I recalled the 
face of my guide, as I had seen it in the small chapel, with 
that divine look, the very memory of which brought pu- 
rity into the heart, I found my suspicions all vanish and 
felt shame at having harboured them but an instant. 

In the mean while, our rapid course continued without 
any interruption, through windings even more capriciously 
intricate than any I yet had passed, and whose thick gloom 
seemed never to have been broken by a single glimmer of 
light. My unseen conductress was still at some distance 
before me, and the slight clue, to which I clung as if it were 



92 



THE EPICUREAN. 



Destiny's own thread, was still kept, by her flying speed, 
at full stretch between us. At length, suddenly stopping, 
she said, in a breathless whisper, "Seat thyself here;" and, 
at the same moment, led me by the hand to a sort of low 
car, in which, obeying her command, I lost not a moment 
in placing myself, while the maiden, no less promptly, 
took her seat by my side. 

A sudden click, like the touching of a spring, was then 
heard, and the car, — which, as I had felt in entering it, 
leaned half-way over a steep descent, — on being loosed 
from its station, shot down, almost perpendicularly, into 
the darkness, with a rapidity which, at first, nearly de- 
prived me of breath. The wheels slid smoothly and 
noiselessly in grooves, and the impetus, which the car ac- 
quired in descending, was sufficient, I perceived, to carry 
it up an eminence that succeeded, — from the summit of 
which it again rushed down another declivity, even still 
more long and precipitous than the former. In this man- 
ner we proceeded, by alternate falls and rises, till, at 
length, from the last and steepest elevation, the car de- 
scended upon a level of deep sand, where, after running 
for a few yards, it by degrees lost its motion and stopped. 

Here, the maiden alighting again placed the riband in 
my hands, — and again I followed her, though with more 
slowness and difficulty than before, as our way now led 
up a flight of damp and time-worn steps, whose ascent 
seemed to the weary and insecure foot interminable. 



THE EPICUREAN. 93 

Perceiving with what languor my guide advanced, I was 
on the point of making an effort to assist her progress, 
when the creak of an opening door above, and a faint 
gleam of light which, at the same moment, shone upon 
her figure, apprized me that we were at last arrived within 
reach of sunshine. 

Joyfully I followed through this opening, and, by the 
dim light, could discern, that we were now in the sanc- 
tuary of a vast, ruined temple, — having entered by a se- 
cret passage under the pedestal, upon which an image of 
the idol of the place once stood. The first movement of 
the young maiden, after closing again the portal under the 
pedestal, was, without even a single look towards me, to 
cast herself down upon her knees, with her hands clasped 
and uplifted, as if in thanksgiving or prayer. But she 
was unable, evidently, to sustain herself in this posi- 
tion; — her strength could hold out no longer. Over- 
come by agitation and fatigue, she sunk senseless upon 
the pavement. 

Bewildered as I was myself, by the strange events of 
the night, I stood for some minutes looking upon her in 
a state of helplessness and alarm. But, reminded, by my 
own feverish sensations, of the reviving effects of the air, 
I raised her gently in my arms, and crossing the corridor 
that surrounded the sanctuary, found my way to the outer 
vestibule of the temple. Here, shading her eyes from the 
sun, I placed her, reclining, upon the steps, where the 



94 THE EPICUREAN. 

cool north-wind, then blowing freshly between the pillars, 
might play, with free draught, over her brow. 

It was, indeed, — as I now saw, with certainty, — the 
same beautiful and mysterious girl, w T ho had been the 
cause of my descent into that subterranean world, and 
who now, under such strange and unaccountable circum- 
stances, was my guide back again to the realms of day. 
I looked around to discover where we were, and beheld 
such a scene of grandeur, as, could my eyes have been then 
attracted to any object but the pale form reclining at my 
side, might well have induced them to dwell on its splen- 
did beauties. 

I was now standing, I found, on the small island in the 
centre of Lake Mceris ; and that sanctuary, where we had 
just emerged from darkness, formed part of the ruins of an 
ancient temple, which was (as I have since learned), in 
the grander days of Memphis, a place of pilgrimage for 
worshippers from all parts of Egypt. The fair Lake, 
itself, out of whose waters once rose pavilions, palaces, 
and even lofty pyramids, was still, though divested of 
many of these wonders, a scene of interest and splendour 
such as the whole world could not equal. While the 
shores still sparkled with mansions and temples, that bore 
testimony to the luxury of a living race, the voice of the 
Past, speaking out of unnumbered ruins, whose summits, 
here and there, rose blackly above the wave, told of times 
long fled and generations long swept away, before whose 



THE EPICUREAN. 95 

gigantic remains all the glory of the present stood hum- 
bled. Over the southern bank of the Lake hung the 
dark relics of the Labyrinth ; — its twelve Royal Palaces, 
representing the mansions of the Zodiac — its thundering 
portals and constellated halls, having left nothing now be- 
hind but a few frowning ruins, which, contrasted with the 
soft groves of acacia and olive around them, seemed to re- 
buke the luxuriant smiles of nature, and threw a melan- 
choly grandeur over the whole scene. 

The effects of the air, in reanimating the young 
Priestess, were less speedy than I had expected ; — her 
eyes were still closed, and she remained pale and insen- 
sible. Alarmed, I now rested her head (which had been, 
for some time, supported by my arm) against the base of 
one of the columns, with my cloak for its pillow, while I 
hastened to procure some water from the Lake. The 
temple stood high, and the descent to the shore was pre- 
cipitous. But, my Epicurean habits having but little 
impaired my activity, I soon descended, with the lightness 
of a desert deer, to the bottom. Here, plucking from a 
lofty bean-tree, whose flowers stood, shining like gold, 
above the water, one of those large hollowed leaves that 
serve as cups for the Hebes of the Nile, I filled it from 
the Lake, and hurried back with the cool draught towards 
the temple. It was not, however, without some difficulty 
that I succeeded at last in bearing my rustic chalice steadily 



96 THE EPICUREAN. 

up the steep ; more than once did an unlucky slip waste all 
its contents, and as often did I return impatiently to refill it. 

During this time, the young maiden was fast recovering 
her animation and consciousness ; and, at the moment 
when I appeared above the edge of the steep, was just 
rising from the steps, with her hand pressed to her fore- 
head, as if confusedly recalling the recollection of what 
had occurred. No sooner did she observe me, than 
a short cry of alarm broke from her lips. Looking 
anxiously round, as though she sought for protection, 
and half audibly uttering the words, " Where is he?" 
she made an effort, as I approached, to retreat into the 
temple. 

Already, however, I was by her side, and taking gently 
her hand in mine, as she turned away from me, asked, 
" Whom dost thou seek, fair Priestess ?" — thus, for the first 
time, breaking the silence she had enjoined, and in a tone 
that might have reassured the most timid spirit. But 
my words had no effect in calming her apprehension. 
Trembling, and with her eyes still averted towards the 
Temple, she continued in a voice of suppressed alarm, — 
" Where can he be? — that venerable Athenian, that phi- 
losopher, who " 

" Here, here," I exclaimed, anxiously, interrupting 
her, — " behold him still by thy side, — the same, the very 
same, who saw thee steal from under the Veils of the 



THE EPICUREAN. 97 

Sanctuary, whom thou hast guided by a clue through 
those labyrinths below, and who now only waits his com- 
mand from those lips, to devote himself through life and 
death to thy service." As I spoke these words, she turned 
slowly round, and looking timidly in my face, while her 
own burned with blushes, said, in a tone of doubt and 
wonder, " Thou ! " and then hid her eyes in her hands. 

I knew not how to interpret a reception so unexpected. 
That some mistake or disappointment had occurred was 
evident ; but so inexplicable did the whole adventure ap- 
pear to me, that it was in vain to think of unravelling any 
part of it. Weak and agitated, she now tottered to the steps 
of the Temple, and there seating herself, with her fore- 
head against the cold marble, seemed for some moments 
absorbed in the most anxious thought ; while silent and 
watchful I awaited her decision, though, at the same time, 
with a feeling which proved to be prophetic, — that my 
destiny must, from thenceforth, be linked inseparably 
with hers. 

The inward struggle by which she was agitated, though 
violent, was not of long continuance. Starting suddenly 
from her seat, with a look of terror towards the Temple, 
as if the fear of immediate pursuit had alone decided her, 
she pointed eagerly towards the East, and exclaimed, 
M To the Nile, without delay!" — clasping her hands, after 
she had thus spoken, with the most suppliant fervour, as 
if to soften the abruptness of the mandate she had given, 

H 



98 THE EPICUREAN. 

and appealing to me at the same time, with a look that 
would have taught Stoics themselves tenderness. 

I lost not a moment in obeying the welcome command. 
With a thousand wild hopes naturally crowding upon my 
fancy, at the thoughts of a voyage, under such auspices, 
I descended rapidly to the shore, and hailing one of 
those boats that ply upon the Lake for hire, arranged 
speedily for a passage down the canal to the Nile. Hav- 
ing learned, too, from the boatmen, a more easy path up 
the rock, I hastened back to the Temple for my fair 
charge ; and without a word or look, that could alarm, 
even by its kindness, or disturb the innocent confidence 
which she now evidently reposed in me, led her down 
by the winding path to the boat. 

Every thing around looked sunny and smiling as we em- 
barked. The morning was now in its first freshness, and 
the path of the breeze might clearly be traced over the 
Lake, as it went wakening up the waters from their sleep 
of the night. The gay, golden-winged birds that haunt 
these shores, were, in every direction, skimming along the 
Lake ; while, with a graver consciousness of beauty, the 
swan and the pelican were seen dressing their white plu- 
mage in the mirror of its wave. To add to the liveliness 
of the scene, there came, at intervals, on the breeze, a sweet 
tinkling of musical instruments from boats at a distance, 
employed thus early in pursuing the fish of these waters, that 
allow themselves to be decoyed into the nets by music. 



THE EPICUREAN. 99 

The vessel I had selected for our voyage was one of 
those small pleasure-boats or yachts, — so much in use 
among the luxurious navigators of the Nile, — in the 
centre of which rises a pavilion of cedar or cypress wood, 
adorned richly on the outside, with religious emblems, 
and gaily fitted up, within, for feasting and repose. To the 
door of this pavilion I now led my companion, and, after 
a few words of kindness, — tempered cautiously with as 
much reserve as the deep tenderness of my feeling towards 
her would admit of, — left her in solitude to court that 
restoring rest, which the agitation of her spirits so much 
required. 

For myself, though repose was hardly less necessary to 
me, the state of ferment in which my thoughts had been 
so long kept appeared to render it hopeless. Throwing my- 
self on the deck of the vessel, under an awning which the 
sailors had raised for me, I continued, for some hours, in 
a sort of vague day-dream, — sometimes passing in review 
the scenes of that subterranean drama, and sometimes, 
with my eyes fixed in drowsy vacancy, receiving passively 
the impressions of the bright scenery through which we 
passed. 

The banks of the canal were then luxuriantly wooded. 
Under the tufts of the light and towering palm were seen 
the orange and the citron, interlacing their boughs ; 
while, here and there, huge tamarisks thickened the shade, 
and, at the very edge of the bank, the willow of Babylon 
H 2 



100 THE EPICUREAN. 

stood bending its graceful branches into the water. Oc- 
casionally, out of the depth of these groves, there shone 
a small temple or pleasure-house ; — while, now and then, 
an opening in their line of foliage allowed the eye to 
wander over extensive fields, all covered with beds of 
those pale, sweet roses, for which this district of Egypt is 
so celebrated. 

The activity of the morning hour was visible in every 
direction. Flights of doves and lapwings were fluttering 
among the leaves, and the white heron, which had been 
roosting all night in some date-tree, now stood sunning 
its wings upon the green bank, or floated, like living 
silver, over the flood. The flowers, too, both of land and 
water, looked all just freshly awakened ; — and, most of all, 
the superb lotus, which, having risen along with the sun 
from the wave, was now holding up her chalice for a full 
draught of his light. 

Such were the scenes that now successively presented 
themselves, mingling with the vague reveries that floated 
through my mind, as our boat, with its high, capacious 
sail, swept along the flood. Though the occurrences of 
the last few days appeared to me one continued series of 
wonders, yet by far the most striking marvel of all was, that 
she, whose first look had sent wild-fire into my heart, — 
whom I had thought of ever since with a restlessness of 
passion, that would have dared any thing on earth to ob- 
tain its object, — was now resting sacredly within that small 



THE EPICUREAN. 101 

pavilion, while guarding her, even from myself, I lay 
calmly at its threshold. 

Meanwhile, the sun had reached his meridian height. 
The busy hum of the morning had died gradually away, 
and all around was sleeping in the hot stillness of noon. 
The Nile-goose, having folded up her splendid wings, was ly- 
ing motionless on the shadow of the sycamores in the water. 
Even the nimble lizards upon the bank appeared to move 
more languidly, as the light fell upon their gold and azure 
hues. Overcome as I was with watching, and weary with 
thought, it was not long before I yielded to the becalming 
influence of the hour. Looking fixedly at the pavilion, — 
as if once more to assure myself that I was not already in 
a dream, but that the young Egyptian was really there, — 
I felt my eyes close as I gazed, and in a few minutes 
sunk into a profound sleep. 



102 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER XII. 



It was by the canal through which we now sailed, that, 
in the more prosperous days of Memphis, the commerce 
of Upper Egypt and Nubia was transported to her mag- 
nificent Lake, and from thence, having paid tribute to the 
queen of cities, was poured out again, through the Nile, 
into the ocean. The course of this canal to the river was 
not direct, but ascending in a south-easterly direction to- 
wards the Said ; and in calms, or with adverse winds, the 
passage was tedious. But as the breeze was now blowing 
freshly from the north, there was every prospect of our 
reaching the river before nightfall. Rapidly, too, as our 
galley swept along the flood, its motion was so smooth as 
to be hardly felt ; and the quiet gurgle of the waters, and 
the drowsy song of the boatman at the prow, were the 
only sounds that disturbed the deep silence which pre- 
vailed. 

The sun, indeed, had nearly sunk behind the Libyan 
hills, before the sleep, into which these sounds had contri- 
buted to lull me, was broken ; and the first object on 



THE EPICUREAN. 103 

which my eyes rested, in waking, was that fair young 
Priestess, — seated within a porch which shaded the door 
of the pavilion, and bending intently over a small volume 
that lay unrolled on her lap. 

Her face was but half turned towards me ; and as she, 
once or twice, raised her eyes to the warm sky, whose 
light fell, softened through the trellis, over her cheek, 
I found all those feelings of reverence, which she had in- 
spired me with in the chapel, return. There was even 
a purer and holier charm around her countenance, thus 
seen by the natural light of day, than in those dim and 
unhallowed regions below. She was now looking, too, 
direct to the glorious sky, and her pure eyes and that 
heaven, so worthy of each other, met. 

After contemplating her for a few moments, with little 
less than adoration, I rose gently from my resting-place, 
and approached the pavilion. But the mere movement 
had startled her from her devotion, and, blushing and con- 
fused, she covered the volume with the folds of her robe. 

In the art of winning upon female confidence, I had, of 
course, long been schooled ; and, now that to the lessons 
of gallantry the inspiration of love was added, my ambition 
to please and to interest could hardly, it may be supposed, 
fail of success. I soon found, however, how much less 
fluent is the heart than the fancy, and how different from 
each other may be the operations of making love and feel- 
ing it. In the few words of greeting now exchanged be- 



104 THE EPICUREAN. 

tween us, it was evident that the gay, the enterprising 
Epicurean was little less embarrassed than the secluded 
Priestess;— and, after one or two ineffectual efforts to 
bring our voices acquainted with each other, the eyes of 
both turned bashfully away, and we relapsed into silence. 

From this situation — the result of timidity on one side, 
and of a feeling altogether new, on the other — we were, 
at length, relieved, after an interval of estrangement, by 
the boatmen announcing that the Nile was in sight. The 
countenance of the young Egyptian brightened at this 
intelligence; and the smile with which I congratulated 
her upon the speed of our voyage was responded to by 
another from her, so full of gratitude, that already an 
instinctive sympathy seemed established between us. 

We were now on the point of entering that sacred 
river, for a draught of whose sweet flood the royal daugh- 
ters of the Ptolemies, when far away, on foreign thrones, 
have been known to sigh in the midst of their splen- 
dour. As our boat, with slackened sail, was gliding 
into the current, an inquiry from the boatmen, whe- 
ther they should anchor for the night in the Nile, 
first reminded me of the ignorance in which I still 
remained, with respect to either the motive or des- 
tination of our voyage. Embarrassed by their question, 
I directed my eyes towards the Priestess, whom I saw 
waiting for my answer with a look of anxiety, which this 
silent reference to her wishes at once dispelled. Unfold- 



THE EPICUREAN. 105 

ing eagerly the volume with which I had seen her so 
much occupied, she took from between its folds a small 
leaf of papyrus, on which there appeared to be some faint 
lines of drawing, and after looking upon it thoughtfully 
for a few moments, placed it, with an agitated hand, in 
mine. 

In the mean time, the bbatmen had taken in their sail, 
and the yacht drove slowly down the river with the cur- 
rent, while, by a light which had been kindled at sunset 
on the deck, I stood examining the leaf that the Priestess 
had given me, — her dark eyes fixed anxiously on my coun- 
tenance all the while. The lines traced upon the papyrus 
were so faint as to be almost invisible, and I was for some 
time wholly unable to form a conjecture as to their import. 
At length, however, I succeeded in discovering that they 
were the outlines, or map — -traced slightly and unsteadily 
with a Memphian reed — of a part of that mountainous ridge 
by which Upper Egypt is bounded to the east, together 
with the names, or rather emblems, of the chief towns in 
its immediate neighbourhood. 

It was thither, I now saw clearly, that the young 
Priestess wished to pursue her course. Without fur- 
ther delay, therefore, I ordered the boatmen to set our 
yacht before the wind, and ascend the current. My com- 
mand was promptly obeyed : the white sail again rose 
into the region of the breeze, and the satisfaction that 
beamed in every feature of the fair Egyptian showed that 



106 THE EPICUREAN. 

the quickness with which I had attended to her wishes 
was not unfelt by her. The moon had now risen ; and 
though the current was against us, the Etesian wind of 
the season blew strongly up the river, and we were soon 
floating before it, through the rich plains and groves of 
the Said. 

The love with which this simple girl had inspired me, 
was, perhaps, from the mystic scenes and situations in 
which I had seen her — not unmingled with a tinge of 
superstitious awe, under the influence of which I felt the 
natural buoyancy of my spirit repressed. The few words 
that had passed between us on the subject of our route 
had somewhat loosened this spell ; and what I wanted of 
vivacity and confidence was more than compensated by 
the tone of deep sensibility which love had awakened in 
their place. 

We had not proceeded far before the glittering of lights 
at a*distance, and the shooting up of fireworks, at intervals, 
into the air, apprized us that we were then approaching 
one of those night-fairs, or marts, which it is the custom, 
at this season, to hold upon the Nile. To me the scene 
was familiar; but to my young companion it was evidently 
a new world ; and the mixture of alarm and delight with 
which she gazed, from under her veil, upon the busy 
scene into which we now sailed, gave an air of innocence 
to her beauty, which still more heightened its every 
charm. 



THE EPICUREAN. 107 

It was one of the widest parts of the river ; and the 
whole surface, from one bank to the other, was covered 
with boats. Along the banks of a green island, in the 
middle of the stream, lay anchored the galleys of the 
principal traders, — large floating bazars, bearing each the 
name of its owner, emblazoned in letters of flame, upon 
the stern. Over their decks were spread out, in gay con- 
fusion, the products of the loom and needle of Egypt,— 
rich carpets of Memphis, and those variegated veils, 
for which the female embroiderers of the Nile are so 
celebrated, and to which the name of Cleopatra lends 
a traditional charm. In each of the other galleys was 
exhibited some branch of Egyptian workmanship — vases 
of the fragrant porcelain of On, — cups of that frail 
crystal, whose hues change like those of the pigeon's 
plumage, — enamelled amulets graven with the head of 
Anubis, and necklaces and bracelets of the black beans of 
Abyssinia. 

While Commerce was thus displaying all her luxuries 
in one quarter, in every other, Pleasure swarmed, in her 
thousand shapes, over the waters. Nor was the festivity 
confined to the river alone ; as along the banks of the island 
and on the shores, there were seen illuminated mansions 
glittering through the trees, from whence sounds of music 
and merriment came. In some of the boats were bands of 
minstrels, who, from time to time, answered each other, 
like echoes, across the wave ; and the notes of the lyre, the 



108 THE EPICUREAN. 

flageolet, and the sweet lotus-wood flute, were heard, in 
the pauses of revelry, dying along the waters. 

Meanwhile, from other boats stationed in the least 
lighted places, the workers of fire sent forth their wonders 
into the air. Bursting out suddenly from time to time, as 
if in the very exuberance of joy, these sallies of flame ap- 
peared to reach the sky, and there, breaking into a shower 
of sparkles, shed such a splendour around, as brightened 
even the white Arabian hills, — making them shine like the 
brow of Mount A tlas at night, when the fire from his own 
bosom is playing around its snows. 

The opportunity this mart afforded us, of providing 
ourselves with some less remarkable habiliments than 
those in which we had escaped from that nether world, 
was too seasonable not to be gladly taken advantage of by 
both. For myself, the strange mystic garb which I wore 
was sufficiently concealed by my Grecian mantle, which 
I had fortunately thrown round me on the night of my 
watch. But the thin veil of my companion was a far less 
efficient disguise. She had, indeed, flung away the golden 
beetles from her hair ; but the sacred robe of her order 
was still too visible, and the stars of the bandelet shone 
brightly through her veil. 

Most gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of this op- 
portunity of a change ; and, as she took from out a casket 
— which, with the volume I had seen her reading, ap- 
peared to be her only treasure — a small jewel, to give in 



THE EPICUREAN. 109 

exchange for the simple garments she had chosen, there 
fell out, at the same time, the very cross of silver, which 
I had seen her kiss, as may be remembered, in the monu- 
mental chapel, and which was afterwards pressed to my 
own lips. This link between us (for such it now ap- 
peared to my imagination) called up again in my heart all 
the burning feelings of that moment; — and, had I not 
abruptly turned away, my agitation would, but too plainly, 
have betrayed itself. 

The object, for which we had delayed in this gay scene, 
having been accomplished, the sail was again spread, and 
we proceeded on our course up the river. The sounds 
and the lights we left behind died gradually away, and we 
now floated along in moonlight and silence once more. 
Sweet dews, worthy of being called " the tears of Isis," fell 
refreshingly through the air, and every plant and flower sent 
its fragrance to meet them. The wind, just strong enough 
to bear us smoothly against the current, scarce stirred 
the shadow of the tamarisks on the water. As the inha- 
bitants from all quarters were collected at the night-fair, 
the Nile was more than usually still and solitary. Such 
a silence, indeed, prevailed, that, as we glided near the 
shore, we could hear the rustling of the acacias, as the 
chameleons ran up their stems. It was, altogether, such 
a night as only the climate of Egypt can boast, when the 
whole scene around lies lulled in that sort of bright tran- 
quillity, which may be imagined to light the slumbers of 



110 THE EPICUREAN. 

those happy spirits, who are said to rest in the Valley of 
the Moon, on their way to heaven. 

By such a light, and at such an hour, seated, side by 
side, on the deck of that bark, did we pursue our course 
up the lonely Nile — each a mystery to the other — our 
thoughts, our objects, our very names a secret ; — separated, 
too, till now, by destinies so different ; the one, a gay 
voluptuary of the Garden of Athens, the other, a secluded 
Priestess of the Temples of Memphis ; — and the only re- 
lation yet established between us being that dangerous 
one of love, passionate love, on one side, and the most 
feminine and confiding dependence on the other. 

The passing adventure of the night-fair had not only 
dispelled still more our mutual reserve, but had supplied 
us with a subject on which we could converse without 
embarrassment. From this topic I took care to lead on, 
without interruption, to others, — fearful lest our former 
silence should return, and the music of her voice again be 
lost to me. It was, indeed, only by thus indirectly un- 
burdening my heart that I was enabled to refrain from 
the full utterance of all I thought and felt ; and the rest- 
less rapidity with which I flew from subject to subject was 
but an effort to escape from the only one in which my 
heart was interested. 

" How bright and happy," said I, — pointing up to 
Sothis, the fair Star of the Waters, which was just then 
shining brilliantly over our heads, — " How bright and 



THE EPICUREAN. Ill 

happy this world ought to be, if— as your Egyptian sages 
assert — yon pure and beautiful luminary was its birth- 
star I " Then, still leaning back, and letting my eyes wan- 
der over the firmament, as if seeking to disengage them 
from the fascination which they dreaded — " To the study," 
I exclaimed, " for ages, of skies like this, may the pensive 
and mystic character of your nation be traced. That mix- 
ture of pride and melancholy which naturally arises, at the 
sight of those eternal lights shining out of darkness ; — that 
sublime, but saddened, anticipation of a Future, which 
comes over the soul in the silence of such an hour, when, 
though Death seems to reign in the repose of earth, there 
are yet those beacons of Immortality burning in the 
sky— " 

Pausing, as I uttered the word " immortality," with 
a sigh to think how little my heart echoed to my lips, 
I looked in the face of my companion, and saw that it 
had lighted up, as I spoke, into a glow of holy animation, 
such as Faith alone gives— such as Hope herself wears, 
when she is dreaming of heaven. Touched by the con- 
trast, and gazing upon her with mournful tenderness, 
I found my arms half opened, to clasp her to my heart, 
while the words died away inaudibly upon my lips, — 
" Thou, too, beautiful maiden ! must thou, too, die for 
ever?" 

My self-command, I felt, had nearly deserted me. Rising 
abruptly from my seat, I walked to the middle of the 



112 THE EPICUREAN. 

deck, and stood, for some moments, unconsciously gazing 
upon one of those fires, which — according to the custom 
of all who travel by night on the Nile — our boatmen had 
kindled, to scare away the crocodiles from the vessel* 
But it was in vain that I endeavoured to compose my 
spirit. Every effort I made but more deeply convinced 
me, that, till the mystery which hung round that maiden 
should be solved — till the secret, with which my own 
bosom laboured, should be disclosed — it was fruitless to 
attempt even a semblance of tranquillity. 

My resolution was therefore taken; — to lay open, at least 
my own heart, as far as such a revelation might be risked, 
without startling the timid innocence of my companion. 
Thus resolved, I resumed my seat, with more composure, 
by her side, and taking from my bosom the small mirror 
which she had dropped in the Temple, and which I had 
ever since worn suspended round my neck, presented it 
with a trembling hand to her view. The boatmen had 
just kindled one of their night-fires near us, and its light, 
as she leaned forward towards the mirror, fell upon her 
face. 

The quick blush of surprise with which she recognised 
it to be hers, and her look of bashful, yet eager, inquiry, 
in raising her eyes to mine, were appeals to which I was 
not, of course, tardy in answering. Beginning with the 
first moment when I saw her in the Temple, and passing 
hastily, but with words that burned as they went, over 



THE EPICUREAN. 113 

the impression which she had then left upon my heart and 
fancy, I proceeded to describe the particulars of my descent 
into the pyramid — my surprise and adoration at the door 
of the chapel — my encounter with the Trials of Initiation, 
so mysteriously prepared for me, and all the various vi- 
sionary wonders I had witnessed in that region, till the 
moment when I had seen her stealing from under the 
Veils to approach me. 

Though, in detailing these events, I had said but little 
of the feelings they had awakened in me, — though my lips 
had sent back many a sentence, unuttered, there was still 
enough that could neither be subdued or disguised, and 
whieb, like that light from under the veils of her own Isis, 
glowed through every word that I spoke. When I told 
of the scene in the chapel, — of the silent interview which 
I had witnessed between the dead and the living, — the 
maiden leaned down her head and wept, as from a heart 
full of tears. It seemed a pleasure to her, however, to 
listen ; and, when she looked at me again, there was an 
earnest and affectionate cordiality in her eyes, as if the 
knowledge of my having been present at that mournful 
scene had opened a new source of sympathy and intelli- 
gence between us. So neighbouring are the fountains of 
Love and of Sorrow, and so imperceptibly do they often 
mingle their streams. 

Little, indeed, as I was guided by art or design, in my 
manner and conduct towards this innocent girl, not all 

i 



114 THE EPICUREAN. 

the most experienced gallantry of the Garden could have 
dictated a policy half so seductive as that which my new 
master, Love, now taught me. The same ardour which, 
if shown at once, and without reserve, might probably 
have startled a heart so little prepared for it, being now 
checked and softened by the timidity of real love, won 
its way without alarm, and, when most diffident of suc- 
cess, was then most surely on its way to triumph. Like 
one whose slumbers are gradually broken by music, the 
maiden's heart was awakened without being disturbed. 
She followed the course of the charm, unconscious whither 
it led, nor was even aware of the flame she had lighted in 
another's bosom, till startled by the reflection of it glim- 
mering in her own. 

Impatient as I was to appeal to her generosity and 
sympathy, for a similar proof of confidence to that which 
I had just given, the night was now too far advanced for 
me to impose upon her such a task. After exchanging 
a few words, in which, though little met the ear, there 
was a tone and manner, on both sides, that spoke far 
more than language, we took a lingering leave of each 
other for the night, with every prospect, I fondly hoped, 
of being still together in our dreams. 



THE EPICUREAN 115 



CHAPTER XIII. 



It was so near the dawn of day when we parted, that 
we found the sun sinking westward when we rejoined 
each other. The smile, so frankly cordial, with which she 
now met me, might have been taken for the greeting of a long 
mellowed friendship, did not the blush and the cast-down 
eyelid that followed, give symptoms of a feeling newer 
and less calm. For myself, lightened as I was, in some 
degree, by the confession which I had made, I was yet 
too conscious of the new aspect thus given to our inter- 
course, not to feel some alarm at the prospect of returning 
to the theme. We were both, therefore, alike willing to 
suffer our attention to be diverted, by the variety of 
strange objects that presented themselves on the way, 
from a subject that both equally trembled to approach. 

The river was now all full of motion and life. Every in- 
stant we met with boats descending the current, so wholly 
independent of aid from sail or oar, that the mariners sat 
idly upon the deck as they shot along, either singing or 
playing upon their double-reeded pipes. The greater 
I 2 



116 THE EPICUREAN. 

number of these boats came laden with those large eme- 
ralds, from the mine in the desert, whose colours, it is 
said, are brightest at the full of the moon ; while some 
of them brought cargoes of frankincense from the acacia- 
groves near the Red Sea. On the decks of others, that 
had been, as we learned, to the Golden Mountains beyond 
Syene, were heaped blocks and fragments of that sweet- 
smelling wood, which is yearly washed down, by the 
Green Nile of Nubia, at the season of the floods. 

Our companions up the stream were far less numerous. 
Occasionally a boat, returning lightened from the fair of 
last night, shot rapidly past us, with those high sails that 
catch every breeze from over the hills ; — while, now and 
then, we overtook one of those barges full of bees, that 
are sent at this season to colonise the gardens of the 
south, and take advantage of the first flowers after the 
inundation has passed away. 

For a short time, this constant variety of objects en- 
abled us to divert so far our conversation as to keep it from 
lighting upon the one, sole subject, round which it con- 
stantly hovered. But the effort, as might be expected, 
was not long successful. As evening advanced, the whole 
scene became more solitary. We less frequently ventured 
to look upon each other, and our intervals of silence grew 
more long. 

It was near sunset, when, in passing a small temple on 
the shore, whose porticoes were now full of the evening 



THE EPICUREAN. 117 

light, we saw issuing from a thicket of acanthus near it, 
a train of young maidens gracefully linked together in the 
dance by stems of the lotus held at arms' length between 
them. Their tresses were also wreathed with this gay 
emblem of the season, and in such profusion were its 
white flowers twisted round their waists and arms, that 
they might have been taken, as they lightly bounded 
along the bank, for Nymphs of the Nile, then freshly risen 
from their bright gardens under the wave. 

After looking for a few minutes at this sacred dance, 
the maiden turned away her eyes, with a look of pain, as 
if the remembrances it recalled were of no welcome na- 
ture. This momentary retrospect, this glimpse into the 
past, appeared to offer a sort of clue to the secret for 
which I panted; — and accordingly I proceeded, as gra- 
dually and delicately as my impatience would allow, to 
avail myself of the opening. Her own frankness, how- 
ever, relieved me from the embarrassment of much ques- 
tioning. She seemed even to feel that the confidence 
I sought was due to me ; and beyond the natural hesi- 
tation of maidenly modesty, not a shade of reserve or eva- 
sion appeared. 

To attempt to repeat, in her own touching words, the 
simple story which she now related to me, would be like 
endeavouring to note down some strain of unpremeditated 
music, with all those fugitive graces, those felicities of the 
moment, which no art can restore, as they first met the 



118 THE EPICUREAN, 

ear. From a feeling, too, of humility, she had omitted in 
her short narrative several particulars relating to herself, 
which I afterwards learned ; — while others, not less im- 
portant, she but slightly passed over, from a fear of offend- 
ing the prejudices of her heathen hearer. 

I shall, therefore, give her story, not as she, herself, 
sketched it, but as it was afterwards filled up by a pious 
and venerable hand, — far, far more worthy than mine of 
being associated with the memory of such purity. 



THE EPICUREAN. 119 



STORY OF ALETHE. 

" The mother of this maiden was the beautiful Theora 
of Alexandria, who, though a native of that city, was de- 
scended from Grecian parents. When very young, Theora 
was one of the seven maidens selected to note down the 
discourses of the eloquent Origen, who, at that period, 
presided over the School of Alexandria, and was in all 
the fulness of his fame both among Pagans and Christians. 
Endowed richly with the learning of both creeds, he 
brought the natural light of philosophy to illustrate the 
mysteries of faith, and was then only proud of his know- 
ledge of the wisdom of this world, when he found it mi- 
nister usefully to the triumph of divine truth. 

" Though he had courted in vain the crown of martyr- 
dom, it was, throughout his whole life, held suspended 
over his head, and he had more than once shown him- 
self ready to die for that faith which he lived but to up- 
hold and adorn. On one of these occasions, his tormentors, 
having habited him like an Egyptian priest, placed him 
upon the steps of the Temple of Serapis, and commanded 
that he should, in the manner of the Pagan ministers, 
present palm-branches to the multitude who went up into 
the shrine. But the courageous Christian disappointed 



120 THE EPICUREAN. 

their views. Holding forth the branches with an un- 
shrinking hand, he cried aloud, * Come hither and take 
the branch, not of an Idol Temple, but of Christ.' 

" So indefatigable was this learned Father in his stu- 
dies, that, while composing his Commentary on the Scrip- 
tures, he was attended by seven scribes or notaries, who 
relieved each other in recording the dictates of his elo- 
quent tongue ; while the same number of young females, 
selected for the beauty of their penmanship, were em- 
ployed in arranging and transcribing the precious leaves. 

" Among the scribes so selected, was the fair young 
Theora, whose parents, though attached to the Pagan 
worship, were not unwilling to profit by the accomplish- 
ments of their daughter, thus devoted to a task, which they 
looked on as purely mechanical. To the maid herself, how- 
ever, her employment brought far other feelings and conse- 
quences. She read anxiously as she wrote, and the divine 
truths, so eloquently illustrated, found their way, by de- 
grees, from the page to her heart. Deeply, too, as the 
written words affected her, the discourses from the lips of 
the great teacher himself, which she had frequent opportu- 
nities of hearing, sunk still more deeply into her mind. 
There was, at once, a sublimity and gentleness in his views 
of religion, which, to the tender hearts and lively imagi- 
nations of women, never failed to appeal with convincing 
power. Accordingly, the list of his female pupils was 
numerous ; and the names of Barbara, Juliana, Hera'is, 



THE EPICUREAN. 121 

and others, bear honourable testimony to his influence 
over that sex. 

" To Theora the feeling, with which his discourses 
inspired her, was like a new soul, — a consciousness of 
spiritual existence, never before felt. By the eloquence 
of the comment she was awakened into admiration of 
the text; and when, by the kindness of a Catechumen 
of the school, who had been struck by her innocent zeal, 
she, for the first time, became possessor of a copy of the 
Scriptures, she could not sleep for thinking of her sacred 
treasure. With a mixture of pleasure and fear she hid it 
from all eyes, and was like one who had received a divine 
guest under her roof, and felt fearful of betraying its divi- 
nity to the world. 

" A heart so awake would have been with ease secured 
to the faith, had her opportunities of hearing the sacred 
word continued. But circumstances arose to deprive her 
of this advantage. The mild Origen, long harassed and 
thwarted in his labours by the tyranny of Demetrius, 
Bishop of Alexandria, was obliged to relinquish his school 
and fly from Egypt. The occupation of the fair scribe 
was, therefore, at an end : her intercourse with the fol- 
lowers of the new faith ceased ; and the growing enthu- 
siasm of her heart gave way to more worldly impres- 
sions. 

" Among other feelings love conduced not a little to 
wean her thoughts from the true religion. While still 



122 THE EPICUREAN. 

very young, she became the wife of a Greek adventurer, 
who had come to Egypt as a purchaser of that rich ta- 
pestry, in which the needles of Persia are rivalled by the 
looms of the Nile. Having taken his young bride to 
Memphis, which was still the great mart of this merchan- 
dise, he there, in the midst of his speculations, died, — 
leaving his widow on the point of becoming a mother, 
while, as yet, but in her nineteenth year. 

" For single and unprotected females, it has been, at 
all times, a favourite resource, to seek for employment in 
the service of some of those great temples by which so 
large a portion of the wealth and power of Egypt is ab- 
sorbed. In most of these institutions there exists an order 
o£ Priestesses, which, though not hereditary, like that of 
the Priests, is provided for by ample endowments, and con- 
fers that dignity and station, with which, in a government 
so theocratic, Religion is sure to invest even her humblest 
handmaids. From the general policy of the Sacred Col- 
lege of Memphis, we may take for granted, that an ac- 
complished female, like Theora, found but little difficulty 
in being elected one of the Priestesses of Isis ; and it 
was in the service of the subterranean shrines that her 
ministry chiefly lay. 

" Here, a month or two after her admission, she gave 
birth to Alethe, who first opened her eyes among the un- 
holy pomps and specious miracles of this mysterious re- 
gion. Though Theora, as we have seen, had been diverted 



THE EPICUREAN. 123 

by other feelings from her first enthusiasm for the Chris- 
tian faith, she had never wholly forgot the impression 
then made upon her. The sacred volume, which the 
pious Catechumen had given her, was still treasured with 
care ; and, though she seldom opened its pages, there was 
always an idea of sanctity associated with it in her me* 
mory, and often would she sit to look upon it with reve- 
rential pleasure, recalling the happiness she had felt when 
it was first made her own. 

" The leisure of her new retreat, and the lone melan- 
choly of widowhood, led her still more frequently to in- 
dulge in such thoughts, and to recur to those consoling 
truths which she had heard in the school of Alexandria. 
She now began to peruse eagerly the sacred volume, 
drinking deep of the fountain of which she before but 
tasted, and feeling — what thousands of mourners, since 
her, have felt — that Christianity is the true and only reli- 
gion of the sorrowful. 

" This study of her secret hours became still more dear 
to her, from the very peril with which, at that period, it was 
attended, as well as from the necessity she felt herself under 
of concealing from all those around her the precious light 
that had been thus kindled in her own heart. Too timid to 
encounter the fierce persecution, which awaited all who 
were suspected of a leaning to Christianity, she continued 
to officiate in the pomps and ceremonies of the Temple ; 
— though, often, with such remorse of soul, that she 



124 THE EPICUREAN. 

would pause, in the midst of the rites, and pray inwardly 
to God, that he would forgive her this profanation of his 
Spirit. 

" In the mean time her daughter, the young Alethe, 
grew up still lovelier than herself, and added, every hour, 
to her happiness and her fears. When arrived at a suffi- 
cient age, she was taught, like the other children of the 
priestesses, to take a share in the service and ceremonies 
of the shrines. The duty of some of these young servitors 
was to look after the flowers for the altar ; — of others, to 
take care that the sacred vases were filled every day with 
fresh water from the Nile. The task of some was to pre- 
serve, in perfect polish, those silver images of the Moon 
which the priests carried in processions; while others 
were, as we have seen, employed in feeding the consecrated 
animals, and in keeping their plumes and scales bright for 
the admiring eyes of their worshippers. 

" The office allotted to Alethe — the most honourable 
of these minor ministries — was to wait upon the sacred 
birds of the Moon, to feed them daily with those eggs from 
the Nile which they loved, and provide for their use that 
purest water, which alone these delicate birds will touch. 
This employment was the delight of her childish hours ; 
and that ibis, which Alciphron (the Epicurean) saw her 
dance round in the Temple, was, of all the sacred flock, 
her especial favourite, and had been daily fondled and fed 
by her from infancy. 



THE EPICUREAN. 125 

" Music, as being one of the chief spells of this en- 
chanted region, was an accomplishment required of all its 
ministrants ; and the harp, the lyre, and the sacred flute, 
sounded nowhere so sweetly as through these subterra- 
nean gardens. The chief object, indeed, in the education 
of the youth of the Temple, was to fit them, by every 
grace of art and nature, to give effect to the illusion of 
those shows and phantasms, in which the entire charm 
and secret of Initiation lay. 

" Among the means employed to support the old sys- 
tem of superstition, against the infidelity and, still more, 
the new Faith that menaced it, was an increased prodi- 
gality of splendour and marvels in those Mysteries for 
which Egypt has so long been celebrated. Of these cere- 
monies so many imitations had, under various names, 
multiplied throughout Europe, that the parent superstition 
ran a risk of being eclipsed by its progeny ; and, in order 
still to rank as the first Priesthood in the world, it became 
necessary for those of Egypt to continue still the best 
impostors. 

" Accordingly, every contrivance that art could devise, 
or labour execute, — every resource that the wonderful 
knowledge of the Priests, in pyrotechny, mechanics, and 
dioptrics, could command, — was brought into action to 
heighten the effect of their Mysteries, and give an air of 
enchantment to every thing connected with them. 

ei The final scene of beatification, — the Elysium, into 



126 THE EPICUREAN. 

which the Initiate was received, — formed, of course, the 
leading attraction of these ceremonies ; and to render it 
captivating alike to the senses of the man of pleasure, and 
the imagination of the spiritualist, was the object to which 
the whole skill and attention of the Sacred College were 
devoted. By the influence of the Priests of Memphis 
over those of the other Temples they had succeeded in 
extending their subterranean frontier, both to the north 
and south, so as to include, within their ever-lighted Pa- 
radise, some of the gardens excavated for the use of the 
other Twelve Shrines. 

" The beauty of the young Alethe, the touching sweet- 
ness of her voice, and the sensibility that breathed through- 
out her every look and movement, rendered her a power- 
ful auxiliary in such appeals to the imagination. She had 
been, accordingly, in her very childhood, selected from among 
her fair companions, as the most worthy representative of 
spiritual loveliness, in those pictures of Elysium— those 
scenes of another world — by which not only the fancy, 
but the reason, of the excited Aspirants was dazzled. 

" To the innocent child herself these shows were pas- 
time. But to Theora, who knew too well the imposition 
to which they were subservient, this profanation of all 
that she loved was a perpetual source of horror and re- 
morse. Often would she — when Alethe stood smiling 
before her, arrayed, perhaps, as a spirit of the Elysian 
world, — turn away, with a shudder, from the happy child, 



THE EPICUREAN. 127 

almost fancying that she already saw the shadows of sin 
descending over that innocent brow, as she gazed 
upon it. 

" As the intellect of the young maid became more ac- 
tive and inquiring, the apprehensions and difficulties of 
the mother increased. Afraid to communicate her own 
precious secret, lest she should involve her child in the 
dangers that encompassed it, she yet felt it to be no less 
a cruelty than a crime to leave her wholly immersed in 
the darkness of Paganism. In this dilemma, the only 
resource that remained to her was to select, and disengage 
from the dross that surrounded them, those pure particles 
of truth which lie at the bottom of all religions ; — those 
feelings, rather than doctrines, of which God has never 
left his creatures destitute, and which, in all ages, have 
furnished, to those who sought after it, some clue to his 
glory. 

" The unity and perfect goodness of the Creator ; the 
fall of the human soul into corruption; its struggles with 
the darkness of this world, and its final redemption and 
reascent to the source of all spirit ; — these natural solu- 
tions of the problem of our existence, these elementary 
grounds of all religion and virtue, which Theora had heard 
illustrated by her Christian teacher, lay also, she knew, 
veiled under the theology of Egypt ; and to impress them, 
in their abstract purity, upon the mind of her susceptible 



128 THE EPICUREAN. 

pupil, was, in default of more heavenly lights, her sole 
ambition and care. 

" It was generally their habit, after devoting their 
mornings to the service of the Temple, to pass their even- 
ings and nights in one of those small mansions above 
ground, allotted, within the precincts of the Sacred Col- 
lege, to some of the most favoured Priestesses. Here, 
out of the reach of those gross superstitions, which pur- 
sued them, at every step, below, she endeavoured to in- 
form, as far as she could venture, the mind of her beloved 
girl ; and found it lean as naturally and instinctively to 
truth, as plants long shut up in darkness will, when light 
is let in upon them, incline themselves to its rays. 

" Frequently, as they sat together on the terrace at 
night, admiring that glorious assembly of stars, whose 
beauty first misled mankind into idolatry, she would ex- 
plain to the young listener by what gradations it was that 
the worship, thus transferred from the Creator to the 
creature, sunk still lower and lower in the scale of being, 
till man, at length, presumed to deify man, and by the 
most monstrous of inversions, heaven became at last the 
mirror of earth, reflecting back all its most earthly fea- 
tures. 

" Even in the Temple itself, the anxious mother would 
endeavour to interpose her purer lessons among the ido- 
latrous ceremonies in which they were engaged. When 



THE EPICUREAN. 129 

the favourite ibis of Aletlie took its station on the shrine, 
and the young maiden was seen approaching, with all the 
gravity of worship, the very bird which she had played 
with but an hour before, — when the acacia-bough, which 
she herself had plucked, seemed to acquire a sudden sa- 
credness in her eyes, as soon as the priest had breathed 
upon it, — on all such occasions Theora, though with fear 
and trembling, would venture to suggest to the youthful 
worshipper the distinction that should be drawn between 
the sensible object of adoration, and that spiritual, unseen 
Deity, of which it was but the remembrancer or type. 

" With sorrow, however, she soon discovered that, in thus 
but partially letting in light upon a mind far too ardent to 
rest satisfied with such glimmerings, she but bewildered the 
heart which she meant to guide, and cut down the feeble 
hope around which its faith twined, without substituting 
any other support in its place. As the beauty, too, of 
Alethe began to attract all eyes, new fears crowded upon 
the mother's heart ; — fears, in which she was but too much 
justified by the characters of some of those around her. 

" In this sacred abode, as may easily be conceived, mo- 
rality did not always go hand and hand with religion. 
The hypocritical and ambitious Orcus, who was, at this 
period, High Priest of Memphis, was a man, in every re- 
spect, qualified to preside over a system of such splendid 
fraud. He had reached that effective time of life, when 
enough of the warmth and vigour of youth remains to give 

K 



130 THE EPICUREAN. 

animation to the counsels of age. But, in his instance' 
youth had left only the baser passions behind, while age 
but brought with it a more refined maturity of mischief. 
The advantages of a faith appealing almost wholly to the 
senses, were well understood by him ; nor had he failed 
either to discover that, in order to render religion subser- 
vient to his own interests, he must shape it adroitly to the 
interests and passions of others. 

" The state of remorse and misery in which the mind 
of Theora was constantly kept by the scenes, however 
artfully veiled, which she daily witnessed around her, be- 
came at length intolerable. No perils that the cause of 
truth could bring with it would be half so dreadful as this 
endurance of sinfulness and deceit. Her child was, as 
yet, pure and innocent ; but, without that sentinel of the 
soul, Religion, how long might she continue so ? 

" This thought at once decided her : all other fears va- 
nished before it. She resolved instantly to lay open to 
Alethe the whole secret of her soul ; to make this child, 
who was her only hope on earth, the sharer of all her 
hopes in heaven, and then fly with her, as soon as possible, 
from this unhallowed spot, to the far desert — to the moun- 
tains — to any place, however desolate, where God and 
the consciousness of innocence might be with them. 

" The promptitude with which her young pupil caught 
from her the divine truths was even beyond what she ex- 
pected. It was like the lighting of one torch at another, 



THE EPICUREAN. 131 

so prepared was Alethe's mind for the illumination. Amply 
was the anxious mother now repaid for all her misery, 
by this perfect communion of love and faith, and by the 
delight, with which she saw her beloved child — like the 
young antelope, when first led by her dam to the well — 
drink thirstily by her side, at the source of all life and 
truth. 

" But such happiness was not long to last. The anxie- 
ties that Theora had suffered began to prey upon her 
health. She felt her strength daily decline ; and the 
thoughts of leaving, alone and unguarded in the world, 
that treasure which she had just devoted to Heaven, gave 
her a feeling of despair which but hastened the ebb of life. 
Had she put in practice her resolution of flying from this 
place, her child might have been now beyond the reach of 
ail she dreaded, and in the solitude of the desert would 
have found at least safety from wrong. But the very 
happiness she had felt in her new task diverted her from 
this project ; — and it was now too late, for she was already 
dying. 

" She continued to conceal, however, her state from 
the tender and sanguine girl, who, though seeing the 
traces of disease upon her mother's cheek, little knew that 
they were the hastening footsteps of death, nor thought 
even of the possibility of losing what was so dear to her. 
Too soon, however, the moment of separation arrived ; 
and while the anguish and dismay of Alethe were in pro- 
k 2 



132 THE EPICUREAN. 

portion to the security in which she had indulged, Theora, 
too, felt, with bitter regret, that she had sacrificed to her 
fond consideration much precious time, and that there 
now remained but a few brief and painful moments, 
for the communication of all those wishes and instruc- 
tions on which the future destiny of the young orphan 
depended. 

" She had, indeed, time for little more than to place 
the sacred volume solemnly in her hands, to implore that 
she would, at all risks, fly from this unholy place, and, 
pointing, in the direction of the mountains of the Said, to 
name, with her last breath, the venerable man, to whom, 
under Heaven, she looked for the protection and salvation 
of her child. 

" The first violence of feeling to which Alethe gave way 
was succeeded by a fixed and tearless grief, which rendered 
her insensible, for some time, to the dangers of her situa- 
tion. Her only comfort was in visiting that monumental 
chapel where the beautiful remains of Theora lay. There, 
night after night, in contemplation of those placid fea- 
tures, and in prayers for the peace of the departed spirit, 
did she pass her lonely, and — however sad they were — 
happiest hours. Though the mystic emblems that deco- 
rated that chapel were but ill-suited to the slumber of 
a Christian saint, there was one among them, the Cross, 
which, by a remarkable coincidence, is an emblem com- 
mon alike to the Gentile and the Christian, — being, to 



THE EPICUREAN. 133 

the former, a shadowy type of that immortality, of which, 
to the latter, it is a substantial and assuring pledge. 

" Nightly, upon this cross, which she had often seen 
her lost mother kiss, did she breathe forth a solemn and 
heartfelt vow, never to abandon the faith which that de- 
parted spirit had bequeathed to her. To such enthusiasm* 
indeed, did her heart at such moments rise, that, but for 
the last injunctions from those pallid lips, she would, at 
once, have avowed her perilous secret, and pronounced 
the words, ' I am a Christian,' among those benighted 
shrines I 

" But the will of her, to whom she owed more than 
life, was to be obeyed. To escape from this haunt of su- 
perstition must now, she felt, be her first object ; and, in 
devising the means of effecting it, her mind, day and 
night, was employed. It was with a loathing not to be 
concealed, that she now found herself compelled to re- 
sume her idolatrous services at the shrine. To some of 
the offices of Theora she succeeded, as is the custom, by 
inheritance ; and in the performance of these tasks — 
sanctified as they were in her eyes by the pure spirit she 
had seen engaged in them — there was a sort of melan- 
choly pleasure in which her sorrow found relief. But the 
part she was again forced to take, in the scenic shows of 
the Mysteries, brought with it a sense of wrong and de- 
gradation which she could no longer endure. 

" Already had she formed, in her own mind, a plan of 



134 



THE EPICUREAN. 



escape, in which her acquaintance with all the windings 
of this mystic realm gave her confidence, when the recep- 
tion of Alciphron, as an Initiate, took place. 

" From the first moment of the landing of that philo- 
sopher at Alexandria, he had become an object of suspi- 
cion and watchfulness to the inquisitorial Orcus, whom 
philosophy, in any shape, naturally alarmed, but to whom 
the sect over which the young Athenian presided was par- 
ticularly obnoxious. The accomplishments of Alciphron, 
his popularity, wherever he went, and the bold freedom 
with which he indulged his wit at the expense of religion, 
were all faithfully reported to the High Priest by his spies, 
and awaked in his mind no kindly feelings towards the 
stranger. In dealing with an infidel, such personage as 
Orcus could know no other alternative but that of either 
converting or destroying him; and though his spite, as 
a man, would have been more gratified by the latter pro- 
ceeding, his pride, as a priest, led him to prefer the 
triumph of the former. 

" The first descent of the Epicurean into the pyramid 
became speedily known, and the alarm was immediately 
given to the Priests below. As soon as they had disco- 
vered that the young philosopher of Athens was the in- 
truder, and that he not only still continued to linger round 
the pyramid, but was observed to look often and wistfully 
towards the portal, it was concluded that his curiosity 
would impel him to try a second descent ; and Orcus, 



THE EPICUREAN. 135 

blessing the good chance which had thus brought the 
wild bird to his net, resolved not to suffer an opportunity 
so precious to be wasted. 

" Instantly, the whole of that wonderful machinery, by 
which the phantasms and illusions of Initiation are pro- 
duced, were put in active preparation throughout that 
subterranean realm ; and the increased stir and vigilance 
awakened among its inmates, by this more than ordinary 
display of the resources of priestcraft, rendered the ac" 
complishment of Alethe's purpose, at such a moment, 
peculiarly difficult. Wholly ignorant of the important 
share which it had been her own fortune to take in at- 
tracting the young philosopher down to this region, she 
but heard of him vaguely, as the Chief of a great Grecian 
sect, who had been led, by either curiosity or accident, to 
expose himself to the first trials of Initiation, and whom 
the priests, she could see, were endeavouring to insnare 
in their toils, by every art and lure with which their dark 
science had gifted them. 

" To her mind, the image of a philosopher, such as 
Alciphron had been represented to her, came associated 
with ideas of age and reverence ; and, more than once, 
the possibility of his being made instrumental to her de- 
liverance flashed a hope across her heart in which she 
could not refrain from indulging. Often had she been 
told by Theora of the many Gentile sages, who had laid 



136 THE EPICUREAN. 

their wisdom down humbly at the foot of the Gross ; and 
though this Initiate, she feared, could hardly be among 
the number, yet the rumours which she had gathered 
from the servants of the Temple, of his undisguised con- 
tempt for the errors of heathenism, led her to hope she 
might find tolerance, if not sympathy, in her appeal to 
him. 

" Nor was it solely with a view to her own chance of 
deliverance that she thus connected him in her thoughts 
with the plan which she meditated. The look of proud 
and self-gratulating malice, with which the High Priest 
had mentioned this ' infidel,' as he styled him, when in- 
structing her in the scene she was to enact before the phi- 
losopher in the valley, but too plainly informed her of the 
destiny that hung over him. She knew how many were 
the hapless candidates for Initiation, who had been doomed 
to a durance worse than that of the grave, for but a word, 
a whisper breathed against the sacred absurdities which 
they witnessed ; and it was evident to her that the vene- 
rable Greek (for such her fancy represented Alciphron) 
was no less interested in escaping from the perils of this 
region than herself. 

" Her own resolution was, at all events, fixed. That 
visionary scene, in which she had appeared before Alci- 
phron, — little knowing how ardent were the heart and 
imagination, over which her beauty, at that moment, 



THE EPICUREAN. 137 

exercised its influence, — was, she solemnly resolved, the 
very last unholy service, that superstition or imposture 
should ever command of her. 

" On the following night the Aspirant was to watch in 
the Great Temple of Isis. Such an opportunity of ap- 
proaching and addressing him might never come again. 
Should he, from compassion for her situation, or a sense 
of the danger of his own, consent to lend his aid to her 
flight, most gladly would she accept it, — well assured that 
no danger or treachery she might risk could be half so 
odious and fearful as those which she left behind. Should 
he, on the contrary, refuse, her determination was equally 
fixed, — to trust to that God whose eye watches over the 
innocent, and go forth alone. 

" To reach the island in Lake Mceris was her first great 
abject ; and there occurred fortunately, at this time, a mode 
of effecting her purpose, by which both the difficulty and 
dangers of the attempt would be much diminished. The 
day of the annual visitation of the High Priest to the 
Place of Weeping — as that island in the centre of the Lake 
is called — was now fast approaching ; and Alethe knew 
that the self-moving car, by which the High Priest and 
one of the Hierophants are conveyed to the chambers 
under the Lake, stood then waiting in readiness. By 
availing herself of this expedient, she would gain the 
double advantage both of facilitating her own flight, and 
retarding the speed of her pursuers. 



138 THE EPICUREAN. 

u Having paid a last visit to the tomb of her beloved 
mother, and wept there, long and passionately, till her 
heart almost failed in the struggle, — having paused, too, 
to give a kiss to her favourite ibis, which, though too 
much a Christian to worship, she was still child enough 
to love, — she went early, with a trembling step, to the 
Sanctuary, and there hid herself in one of the recesses of 
the Shrine. Her intention was to steal out from thence 
to Alciphron, while it was yet dark, and before the illu- 
mination of the great Statue behind the Veils had begun. 
But her fears delayed her till it was almost too late ; — al- 
ready was the image lighted up, and still she remained 
trembling in her hiding-place. 

" In a few minutes more the mighty Veils would have 
been withdrawn, and the glories of that scene of enchant- 
ment laid open, — when, at length, summoning all her 
courage, and taking advantage of a momentary absence of 
those employed in preparing this splendid mockery, she 
stole from under the Veil and found her way, through the 
gloom, to the Epicurean. There was then no time for 
explanation ; — she had but to trust to the simple words, 
* Follow, and be silent;' and the implicit readiness with 
which she found them obeyed filled her with no less sur- 
prise than the philosopher himself had felt in hearing 
them. 

" In a second or two they were on their way through 
the subterranean windings, leaving the ministers of Isis to 



THE EPICUREAN. 139 

waste their splendours on vacancy, through a long series 
of miracles and visions which they now exhibited, — -un- 
conscious that he, whom they were taking such pains to 
dazzle, was already, under the guidance of the young 
Christian, far removed beyond the reach of their deceiving 
spells." 



140 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER XIV. 



Such was the singular story, of which this innocent girl 
now gave me, in her own touching language, the out- 
line. 

The sun was just rising as she finished her narrative. 
Fearful of encountering the expression of those feelings 
with which, she could not but observe, I was affected by 
her recital, scarcely had she concluded the last sentence, 
when, rising abruptly from her seat, she hurried into the 
pavilion, leaving me with the words already crowding for 
utterance to my lips. 

Oppressed by the various emotions thus sent back upon 
my heart, I lay down on the deck in a state of agitation, 
that defied even the most distant approaches of sleep. 
While every word she had uttered, every feeling she ex- 
pressed, but ministered new fuel to that flame which con- 
sumed me, and to describe which, passion is far too weak 
a word, there was also much of her recital that disheart- 
ened and alarmed me. To find a Christian thus under 
the garb of a Memphian Priestess, was a discovery that, 



THE EPICUREAN. 141 

had my heart been less deeply interested, would but have 
more powerfully stimulated my imagination and pride. 
But, when I recollected the austerity of the faith she had 
embraced, — the tender and sacred tie, associated with it 
in her memory, and the devotion of woman's heart to ob- 
jects thus consecrated, — her very perfections but widened 
the distance between us, and all that most kindled my 
passion at the same time chilled my hopes. 

Were we to be left to each other, as on this silent river, 
in such undisturbed communion of thoughts and feelings, 
I knew too well, I thought, both her sex's nature and my 
own, to feel a doubt that love would ultimately triumph. 
But the severity of the guardianship to which I must re- 
sign her, — that of some monk of the desert, some stern 
Solitary, — the influence such a monitor would gain over 
her mind, — and the horror with which he might, ere long, 
teach her to regard the reprobate infidel on whom she 
now smiled, — in all this prospect I saw nothing but 
despair. After a few short hours, my dream of happiness 
would be at an end, and such a dark chasm must then 
open between our fates, as would dissever them, wide as 
earth from heaven, asunder. 

It was true, she was now wholly in my power. I feared 
no witnesses but those of earth, and the solitude of the 
desert was at hand. But though I acknowledged not 
a heaven, I worshipped her who was, to me, its type and 



142 THE EPICUREAN. 

substitute. If, at any moment, a single thought of wrong 
or deceit, towards one so sacred arose in my mind, one 
look from her innocent eyes averted the sacrilege. Even 
passion itself felt a holy fear in her presence, — like the 
flame trembling in the breeze of the sanctuary, — and 
Love, pure Love, stood in place of Religion. 

As long as I knew not her story, I could indulge, at 
least, in dreams of the future. But, now — what hope, 
what prospect remained ? My single chance of happiness 
lay in the hope, however delusive, of being able to divert 
her thoughts from the fatal project which she meditated ; 
of weaning her, by persuasion and argument, from that 
austere faith, which I had before hated and now feared, 
and of attaching her, perhaps, alone and unlinked as she 
was in the world, to my own fortunes for ever ! 

In the agitation of these thoughts, I had started from 
my resting-place, and continued to pace up and down, 
under a burning sun, till, exhausted both by thought and 
feeling, I sunk down, amid that blaze of light, into a sleep, 
which to my fevered brain seemed a sleep of fire. 

On awaking, I found the veil of Alethe laid carefully 
over my brow, while she, herself, sat near me, under the 
shadow of the sail, looking anxiously upon that leaf, 
which her mother had given her, and employed appa- 
rently in comparing its outlines with the course of the 
river, as well as with the forms of the rocky hills by which 



THE EPICUREAN. 143 

we were passing. She looked pale and troubled, and rose 
eagerly to meet me, as if she had long and impatiently 
waited for my waking. 

Her heart, it was plain, had been disturbed from its 
security, and was beginning to take alarm at its own feel- 
ings. But, though vaguely conscious of the peril to which 
she was exposed, her reliance, as is usual in such cases, 
increased with her danger, and upon me, far more than 
on herself, did she seem to depend for saving her. To 
reach, as soon as possible, her asylum in the desert, was 
now the urgent object of her entreaties and wishes ; and 
the self-reproach which she expressed at having, for a sin- 
gle moment, suffered her thoughts to be diverted from 
this sacred purpose, not only revealed the truth, that she 
had forgotten it, but betrayed even a glimmering con- 
sciousness of the cause. 

Her sleep, she said, had been broken by ill-omened 
dreams. Every moment the shade of her mother had 
stood before her, rebuking, with mournful looks, her de- 
lay, and pointing, as she had done in death, to the eastern 
hills. Bursting into tears at this accusing recollection, 
she hastily placed the leaf, which she had been examining, 
in my hands, and implored that I would ascertain, with- 
out a moment's delay, what portion of our voyage was still 
unperformed, and in what space of time we might hope 
to accomplish it. 

I had, still less than herself, taken note of either place 



144 THE EPICUREAX. 

or distance ; and, could we have been left to glide on in 
this dream of happiness, should never have thought of 
pausing to ask where it would end. But such confidence, 
I felt, was far too sacred to be deceived. Reluctant as 
I naturally was, to enter on an inquiry, which might soon 
dissipate even my last hope, her wish was sufficient to 
supersede even the selfishness of love, and on the instant 
I proceeded to obey her will. 

There stands on the eastern bank of the Nile, to the 
north of Antinoe, a high and steep rock, impending over 
the flood, which has borne, for ages, from a prodigy con- 
nected with it, the name of the Mountain of the Birds. 
Yearly, it is said, at a certain season and hour, large flocks 
of birds assemble in the ravine, of which this rocky moun- 
tain forms one of the sides, and are there observed to go 
through the mysterious ceremony of inserting each its 
beak into a particular cleft of the rock, till the cleft closes 
upon one of their number, when all the rest of the birds 
take wing, and leave the selected victim to die. 

Through the ravine, rendered famous by this charm, — 
for such the multitude consider it, — there ran, in ancient 
times, a canal from the Nile, to some great and forgotten 
city, now buried in the desert. To a short distance from 
the river this canal still exists, but, after having passed 
through the defile, its scanty waters disappear, and are 
wholly lost under the sands. 

It was in the neighbourhood of this place, as I could 



THE EPICUREAN. 145 

collect from the delineations on the leaf, — where a flight 
of birds represented the name of the mountain, — that the 
abode of the Solitary, to whom Alethe was about to be 
consigned, was situated. Little as J knew of the geogra- 
phy of Egypt, it at once struck me, that we had long 
since left this mountain behind ; and, on inquiring of our 
boatmen, I found my conjecture confirmed. We had, in- 
deed, passed it, on the preceding night ; and, as the 
wind had been, ever since, blowing strongly from the 
north, and the sun was already sinking towards the hori- 
zon, we must be now, at least, a day's sail to the south- 
ward of the spot. 

This discovery, I confess, filled my heart with a feeling 
of joy which I found it difficult to conceal. It seemed 
as if fortune was conspiring with love in my behalf, and, 
by thus delaying the moment of our separation, afforded 
me a chance at least of happiness. Her look and man- 
ner, too, when informed of our mistake, rather encou- 
raged than chilled this secret hope. In the first moment 
of astonishment, her eyes opened upon me with a sudden- 
ness of splendour, under which I felt my own wink as 
though lightning had crossed them. But she again, as 
suddenly, let their lids fall, and, after a quiver of her 
lip, which showed the conflict of feeling then going on 
within, crossed her arms upon her bosom, and looked 
down silently upon the deck ; her whole countenance 



146 THE EPICUREAN. 

sinking into an expression, sad, but resigned, as if she 
now felt that fate was on the side of wrong, and saw Love 
already stealing between her soul and heaven. 

I was not slow, of course, in availing myself of what 
I fancied to be the irresolution of her mind. But, still, 
fearful of exciting alarm by any appeal to feelings of re- 
gard or tenderness, I but addressed myself to her imagi- 
nation, and to that love of novelty and wonders, which is 
ever ready to be awakened within the youthful breast. 
We were now approaching that region of miracles, 
Thebes. " In a day or two," said I, " we shall see, 
towering above the waters, the colossal Avenue of 
Sphinxes, and the bright Obelisks of the Sun. We 
shall visit the plain of Memnon, and behold those 
mighty statues that fling their shadows at sunrise over the 
Libyan hills. We shall hear the image of the Son of the 
Morning answering to the first touch of light. From 
thence, in a few hours, a breeze like this will transport us 
to those sunny islands near the cataracts ; there, to wan- 
der, among the sacred palm-groves of Philoe, or sit, at 
noon-tide hour, in those cool alcoves, which the waterfall 
of Syene shadows under its arch. Oh, who is there that, 
with scenes of such loveliness within reach, would turn 
coldly away to the bleak desert, and leave this fair world, 
with all its enchantments, shining unseen and unen- 
joyed? At least," — I added, taking tenderly her hand 



THE EPICUREAN. 147 

in mine, — " let a few more days be stolen from the 
dreary fate to which thou hast devoted thyself, and 
then " 

She had heard but the last few words ; — the rest had 
been lost upon her. Startled by the tone of tenderness 
into which, in despite of all my resolves, I had suffered 
my voice to soften, she looked for an instant with pas- 
sionate earnestness into my face ; — then, dropping upon 
her knees with her clasped hands upraised, exclaimed, — 
" Tempt me not, in the name of God I implore thee, 
tempt me not to swerve from my sacred duty. Oh ! take 
me instantly to that desert mountain, and I will bless 
thee for ever." 

This appeal, I felt, could not be resisted, — even though 
my heart were to break for it. Having silently intimated 
my assent to her prayer, by a slight pressure of her hand 
as I raised her from the deck, I proceeded immediately, 
as we were still in full career, for the south, to give ordeis 
that our sail should be instantly lowered, and not a mo- 
ment lost in retracing our course. 

In giving these directions, however, it, for the first 
time, occurred to me, that, as I had hired this yacht in 
the neighbourhood of Memphis, where it was probable 
the flight of the young Priestess would be most vigi- 
lantly tracked, we should run the risk of betraying to 
the boatmen the place of her retreat; — and there was 
l 2 



148 THE EPICUREAN. 

now a most favourable opportunity for taking precau- 
tions against this danger. Desiring, therefore, that we 
should be landed at a small village on the shore, under 
pretence of paying a visit to some shrine in the neighbour- 
hood, I there dismissed our barge, and was relieved from 
fear of further observation, by seeing it again set sail, and 
resume its course fleetly up the current. 

From the boats of all descriptions that lay idle beside 
the bank, I now selected one, in every respect, suited to 
my purpose, — being, in its shape and accommodations, 
a miniature of our former vessel, but, at the same time, 
so light and small as to be manageable by myself alone, 
and requiring, with the advantage of the current, little 
more than a hand to steer it. This boat I succeeded, 
without much difficulty, in purchasing, and, after a short 
delay, we were again afloat down the current; — the sun 
just then sinking, in conscious glory, over his own golden 
shrines in the Libyan waste. 

The evening was calmer and more lovely than any that 
had yet smiled upon our voyage ; and, as we left the 
shore, a strain of sweet melody came soothingly over our 
ears. It was the voice of a young Nubian girl, whom 
we saw kneeling before an acacia, upon the bank, and 
singing, while her companions stood around, the wild song 
of invocation, which, in her country, they address to that 
enchanted tree : — 



^m- 



MS^ 




THE EPICUREAN. 149 



"Oh! Abyssinian tree, 

We pray, we pray to thee ; 
By the glow of thy golden fruit, 
And the violet hue of thy flower. 

And the greeting mute 

Of thy hough's salute 
To the stranger who seeks thy bower.* 

II. 

" Oh ! Abyssinian tree, 
How the traveller blesses thee, 
When the night no moon allows, 

And the sunset hour is near, 
And thou bend'st thy boughs 
To kiss his brows, 

Saying, ' Come rest thee here.' 
Oh ! Abyssinian tree, 
Thus bow thy head to me ! " 



In the burden of this song the companions of the young 
Nubian joined ; and we heard the words, " Oh ! Abyssi- 
nian tree," dying away on the breeze, long after the whole 
group had been lost to our eyes. 

Whether, in the new arrangement which I had made 
for our voyage, any motive, besides those which I pro- 
fessed, had a share, I can scarcely, even myself, — so bewil- 
dered were then my feelings, — determine. But no sooner 
had the current borne us away from all human dwellings, 

* See an account of this sensitive tree, which bends down its 
branches to those who approach it, in M. Jomard's Description of 
Syene and the Cataracts. 



150 THE EPICUREAN. 

and we were alone on the waters, with not a soul near, 
than I felt how closely such solitude draws hearts toge- 
ther, and how much more we seemed to belong to each 
other, than when there were eyes around us. 

The same feeling, but without the same sense of its 
danger, was manifest in every look and word of Alethe. 
The consciousness of the one great effort which she had 
made appeared to have satisfied her heart on the score of 
duty, — while the devotedness with which she saw I at- 
tended to her every wish, was felt with all that trusting 
gratitude which, in woman, is the day-spring of love. She 
was, therefore, happy, innocently happy ; and the confid- 
ing, and even affectionate, unreserve of her manner, while 
it rendered my trust more sacred, made it also far more 
difficult. 

It was only, however, upon subjects unconnected with 
our situation or fate, that she yielded to such interchange 
of thought, or that her voice ventured to answer mine. 
The moment I alluded to the destiny that awaited us, all 
her cheerfulness fled, and she became saddened and silent. 
VVhen I described to her the beauty of my own native 
land — its founts of inspiration and fields of glory — her 
eyes sparkled with sympathy, and sometimes even softened 
into fondness. But when I ventured to whisper, that, in 
that glorious country, a life full of love and liberty awaited 
her ; when I proceeded to contrast the adoration and bliss 
she might command, with the gloomy austerities of the 



THE EPICUREAN. 151 

life to which she was hastening, — it was like the coming 
of a sudden cloud over a summer sky. Her head sunk, as 
she listened; — I waited in vain for an answer; and when 
half playfully reproaching her for this silence, I stooped 
to take her hand, I could feel the warm tears fast falling 
over it. 

But even this — feeble as was the hope it held out- 
was still a glimpse of happiness. Though it foreboded 
that I should lose her, it also whispered that I was loved. 
Like that lake, in the Land of Roses,* whose waters are 
half sweet, half bitter, I felt my fate to be a compound 
of bliss and pain, — but its very pain well worth all ordi- 
nary bliss. 

And thus did the hours of that night pass along ; while 
every moment shortened our happy dream, and the cur- 
rent seemed to flow with a swifter pace than any that 
ever yet hurried to the sea. Not a feature of the whole 
scene but lives, at this moment, freshly in my memory ; — the 
broken star-light on the water ; — the rippling sound of 
the boat, as, without oar or sail, it went, like a thing of 
enchantment, down the stream ; — the scented fire, burn- 
ing beside us upon the deck, and, then, that face, on 
which its light fell, revealing, at every moment, some 
new charm, — some blush or look, more beautiful than the 
last! 

* The province of Arsinoe, now Fioum. 



152 THE EPICUREAN. 

Often, while I sat gazing, forgetful of all else, in this 
world, our boat, left wholly to itself, would drive from 
its course, and, bearing us away to the bank, get en- 
tangled in the water-flowers, or be caught in some eddy, 
ere I perceived where we were. Once, too, when the 
rustling of my oar among the flowers had startled away 
from the bank some wild antelopes, that had stolen, 
at that still hour, to drink of the Nile, what an emblem 
did I think it of the young heart then beside me, — 
tasting, for the first time, of hope and love, and so soon, 
alas, to be scared from their sweetness for ever ! 



THE EPICUREAN. 153 



CHAPTER XV. 



The night was now far advanced ; — the bend of our 
course towards the left, and the closing in of the eastern 
hills upon the river, gave warning of our approach to the 
hermit's dwelling. Every minute now appeared like the 
last of existence ; and I felt a sinking of despair at my 
heart, which would have been intolerable, had not a reso- 
lution that suddenly, and as if by inspiration, occurred to 
me, presented a glimpse of hope which, in some degree, 
calmed my feelings. 

Much as I had, all my life, despised hypocrisy, — the 
very sect I had embraced being chiefly recommended to 
me by the war they continued to wage upon the cant of all 
others, — it was, nevertheless, in hypocrisy that 1 now scru- 
pled not to take refuge from that calamity which to me 
was far worse than either shame or death, my separation 
from Alethe. In my despair, I adopted the humiliating 
plan — deeply humiliating as I felt it to be, even amid 
the joy with which I welcomed it — of offering myself to 



154 THE EPICUREAN. 

this hermit, as a convert to his faith, and thus becoming 
the fellow-disciple of Alethe under his care ! 

From the moment I resolved upon this plan my spirit 
felt lightened. Though having fully before my eyes the 
labyrinth of imposture into which it would lead me, 
I thought of nothing but the chance of our being still to- 
gether. In this hope, all pride, all philosophy was for- 
gotten, and every thing seemed tolerable, but the prospect 
of losing her. 

Thus resolved, it was with somewhat less reluctant 
feelings, that I now undertook, at the anxious desire of 
my companion, to ascertain the site of that well-known 
mountain, in the'neighbourhood of which the dwelling of 
the anchoret lay. We had already passed one or two stu- 
pendous rocks, which stood, detached, like fortresses, 
over the river's brink, and which, in some degree, cor- 
responded with the description on the leaf. So little was 
there of life now stirring along the shores, that I had 
begun almost to despair of any assistance from inquiry, 
when, on looking to the western bank, I saw a boatman 
among the sedges, towing his small boat, with some diffi- 
culty, up the current. Hailing him as we passed, I asked, 
— " Where stands the Mountain of the Birds?" — and 
he had hardly time to answer, as he pointed above us, 
" There," when we perceived that we were just then en- 
tering into the shadow, which this mighty rock flings 
across the whole of the flood. 



THE EPICUREAN. 155 

In a few moments we had reached the mouth of the 
ravine, of which the Mountain of the Birds forms one of 
the sides, and through which the scanty canal from the 
Nile flows. At the sight of this awful chasm, within 
some of whose dreary recesses (if we had rightly inter- 
preted the leaf) the dwelling of the Solitary was to be found, 
our voices sunk at once into a low whisper, while Alethe 
turned round to me with a look of awe and eagerness, as 
if doubtful whether I had not already disappeared from 
her side. A quick movement, however, of her hand to- 
wards the ravine, told too plainly that her purpose was 
still unchanged. Immediately checking, therefore, with 
my oars, the career of our boat, I succeeded, after no 
small exertion, in turning it out of the current of the 
river, and steering into this bleak and stagnant canal. 

Our transition from life and bloom to the very depth 
of desolation was immediate. While the water on one 
side of the ravine lay buried in shadow, the white skele- 
ton-like crags of the other stood aloft in the pale glare of 
moonlight. The sluggish stream through which we moved 
yielded sullenly to the oar, and the shriek of a few water- 
birds, which we had roused from their fastnesses, was suc- 
ceeded by a silence, so dead and awful, that our lips 
seemed afraid to disturb it by a breath ; and half-whis- 
pered exclamations, " How dreary I" — " How dismal 1" — 
were almost the only words exchanged between us. 

We had proceeded for some time through this gloomy 



156 THE EPICUREAN. 

defile, when, at a short distance before us, among the rocks 
upon which the moonlight fell, we perceived, on a ledge but 
little elevated above the canal, a small hut or cave, which, 
from a tree or two planted around it, had some appear- 
ance of being the abode of a human being. " This, then," 
thought I, " is the home to which she is destined!" — A 
chill of despair came again over my heart, and the oars, 
as I sat gazing, lay motionless in my hands. 

I found Alethe, too, whose eyes had caught the same 
object, drawing closer to my side than she had yet ven- 
tured. Laying her hand agitatedly upon mine, " We 
must here," said she, " part for ever." I turned to her, as 
she spoke ; there was a tenderness, a despondency in her 
countenance, that at once saddened and inflamed my soul. 
"Part!" I exclaimed passionately, — "No! — the same 
God shall receive us both. Thy faith, Alethe, shall, from 
this hour, be mine, and I will live and die in this desert 
with thee !" 

Her surprise, her delight at these words, was like a mo- 
mentary delirium. The wild, anxious smile, with which 
she looked into my face, as if to ascertain whether she 
had, indeed, heard my words aright, bespoke a happiness 
too much for reason to bear. At length the fulness of 
her heart found relief in tears ; and, murmuring forth an 
incoherent blessing on my name, she let her head fall 
languidly and powerlessly on my arm. The light from 
our boat-fire shone upon her face. I saw her eyes, which 



THE EPICUREAN. 157 

she had closed for a moment, again opening upon me 
with the same tenderness, and — merciful Providence, how 
I remember that moment ! — was on the point of bending 
down my lips towards hers, when, suddenly, in the air 
above us, as if it came direct from heaven, there burst 
forth a strain of choral music, that with its solemn sweet- 
ness filled the whole valley. 

Breaking away from my caress at these supernatural 
sounds, the maiden threw herself trembling upon her 
knees, and, not daring to look up, exclaimed wildly, " My 
mother, oh my mother ! " 

It was the Christian's morning hymn that we heard ; — 
the same, as I learned afterwards, that, on their high ter- 
race at Memphis, she had been taught by her mother to 
sing to the rising sun. 

Scarcely less startled than my companion, I looked up, 
and, at the very summit of the rock above us, saw a light, 
appearing to come from a small opening or window, 
through which the sounds also, that had appeared to me 
so supernatural, issued. There could be no doubt, that we 
had now found — if not the dwelling of the anchoret — at 
least, the haunt of some of the Christian brotherhood of 
these rocks, by whose assistance we could not fail to find 
the place of his retreat. 

The agitation, into which Alethe had been thrown by 
the first burst of that psalmody, soon yielded to the soft- 
ening recollections which it brought back ; and a calm 



158 THE EPICUREAN. 

came over her brow, such as it had never before worn 
since we met. She seemed to feel that she had now 
reached her destined haven, and to hail, as the voice of 
heaven itself, those solemn sounds by which she was 
welcomed to it. 

In her tranquillity, however, I was very far from yet 
sympathizing. Impatient to learn all that awaited her as 
well as myself, I pushed our boat close to the base of the 
rock, so as to bring it directly under that lighted window 
on the summit, to find my way up to which was now 
my immediate object. Having hastily received my in- 
structions from Alethe, and made her repeat again the 
name of the Christian whom we sought, I sprang upon 
the bank, and was not long in discovering a sort of path, 
or stairway, cut rudely out of the rock, and leading, as 
I found, by easy windings, up the steep. 

After ascending for some time, I arrived at a level 
space or ledge, which the hand of labour had succeeded in 
converting into a garden, and which was planted, here 
and there, with fig-trees and palms. Around it, too, 
I could perceive, through the glimmering light, a number 
of small caves or grottos, into some of which, human 
beings might find an entrance; while others appeared of no 
larger dimensions than those tombs of the Sacred Birds 
which are seen ranged around Lake Moeris. 

I was still, I found, but half-way up the ascent, nor 
could perceive any further means of continuing my course, 



THE EPICUREAN. 159 

as the mountain from hence rose, almost perpendicularly, 
like a wall. At length, however, on exploring around, 
I discovered behind the shade of a fig-tree a large ladder 
of wood, resting firmly against the rock, and affording an 
easy and safe ascent up the steep. 

Having ascertained thus far, I again descended to the 
boat for Alethe, whom I found trembling already at her 
short solitude ; and having led her up the stairway to this 
quiet garden, left her lodged securely, amid its holy silence, 
while I pursued my way upward to the light on the rock. 

At the top of the long ladder I found myself on another 
ledge or platform, somewhat smaller than the first, but 
planted in the same manner, with trees, and, as I could 
perceive by the mingled light of morning and the moon, 
embellished with flowers. I was now near the summit ; — 
there remained but another short ascent, and, as a ladder 
against the rock supplied, as before, the means of scaling 
it, I was in a few minutes at the opening from which the 
light issued. 

I had ascended gently, as well from a feeling of awe at 
the whole scene, as from an unwillingness to disturb 
rudely the rites on which I intruded. My approach, 
therefore, being unheard, an opportunity was, for some mo- 
ments, afforded me of observing the group within, before 
my appearance at the window was discovered. 

In the middle of the apartment, which seemed once to 
have been a Pagan oratory, there was collected an assem- 



160 THE EPICUREAN. 

bly of about seven or eight persons, some male, some fe- 
male, kneeling in silence round a small altar; — while, 
among them, as if presiding over their ceremony, stood 
an aged man, who, at the moment of my arrival, was pre- 
senting to one of the female worshippers an alabaster cup, 
which she applied, with profound reverence, to her lips. 
The venerable countenance of the minister, as he pro- 
nounced a short prayer over her head, wore an ex- 
pression of profound feeling that showed how wholly 
he was absorbed in that rite ; and when she had drank 
of the cup, — which I saw had engraven on its side the 
image of a head, with a glory round it, — the holy man 
bent down and kissed her forehead. 

After this parting salutation, the whole group rose 
silently from their knees ; and it was then, for the first 
time, that, by a cry of terror from one of the women, 
the appearance of a stranger at the window was dis- 
covered. The whole assembly seemed startled and 
alarmed, except him, that superior person, who, ad- 
vancing from the altar, with an unmoved look, raised 
the latch of the door adjoining to the window, and ad- 
mitted me. 

There was, in this old man's features, a mixture of 
elevation and sweetness, of simplicity and energy, which 
commanded at once attachment and homage; and half 
hoping, half fearing, to find in him the destined guar- 
dian of Alethe, I looked anxiously in his face, as I 



THE EPICUREAN 7 . 161 

entered, and pronounced the name " Melanius !" — 
" Melanius is my name, young stranger," he answered; 
" and whether in friendship or in enmity thou comest, 
Melanius blesses thee." Thus saying, he made a sign 
with his right hand above my head, while, with involun- 
tary respect, I bowed beneath the benediction. 

" Let this volume," I replied, " answer for the peace- 
fulness of my mission," — at the same time, placing in 
his hands the copy of the Scriptures which had been 
his own gift to the mother of Alethe, and which her 
child now brought as the credential of her claims on his 
protection. At the sight of this sacred pledge, which 
he recognised instantly, the solemnity that had at first 
marked his reception of me softened into tenderness. 
Thoughts of other times appeared to pass through his 
mind ; and as, with a sigh of recollection, he took the 
book from my hands, some words on the outer leaf 
caught his eye. They were few, — but contained, most 
probably, the last wishes of the dying Theora ; for as he 
read them over eagerly, I saw tears in his aged eyes. 
" The trust," he said, with a faltering voice, " is pre- 
cious and sacred, and God will enable, I hope, his ser- 
vant to guard it faithfully." 

During this short dialogue, the other persons of the 
assembly had departed, — being, as I afterwards learned, 
brethren from the neighbouring bank of the Nile, who 



162 THE EPICUREAN. 

came thus secretly before daybreak, to join in worship- 
ping their God. Fearful lest their descent down the 
rock might alarm Alethe, I hurried briefly over the few 
words of explanation that remained, and leaving the ve- 
nerable Christian to follow at his leisure, hastened 
anxiously down to rejoin the young maiden. 



THE EPICUREAN. 163 



CHAPTER XVI. 



Melanius was one of the first of those zealous Chris- 
tians of Egypt, who, following the recent example of the 
hermit, Paul, bade farewell to all the comforts of social 
existence, and betook themselves to a life of contemplation 
in the desert. Less selfish, however, in his piety, than most 
of these ascetics, Melanius forgot not the world, in leaving 
it. He knew that man was not born to live wholly for 
himself; that his relation to human kind was that of the 
link to the chain, and that even his solitude should be 
turned to the advantage of others. In flying, therefore, 
from the din and disturbance of life, he sought not to 
place himself beyond the reach of its sympathies, but 
selected a retreat where he could combine the advantage 
of solitude with those opportunities of being useful to his 
fellow-men, which a neighbourhood to their populous 
haunts would afford. 

That taste for the gloom of subterranean recesses, which 
the race of Misraim inherit from their Ethiopian ances- 
tors, had, by hollowing out all Egypt into caverns and 
m 2 



164 THE EPICUREAN. 

crypts, supplied these Christian anchorets with an ample 
choice of retreats. Accordingly, some found a shelter in 
the grottos of Elethya ; — others, among the royal tombs of 
the Thebai'd. In the middle of the Seven Valleys, where 
the sun rarely shines, a few have fixed their dim and me- 
lancholy retreat; while others have sought the neighbour- 
hood of the red Lakes of Nitria, and there, like those 
Pagan solitaries of old, who fixed their dwelling among 
the palm-trees near the Dead Sea, pass their whole lives in 
musing amidst the sterility of nature, and seem to find, in 
her desolation, peace. 

It was on one of the mountains of the Said, to the east 
of the river, that Melanius, as we have seen, chose his 
place of seclusion, — having all the life and fertility of the 
Nile on one side, and the lone, dismal barrenness of the 
desert on the other. Half-way down this mountain, where 
it impends over the ravine, he found a series of caves or 
grottos dug out of the rock, which had, in other times, 
ministered to some purpose of mystery, but whose use 
had long been forgotten, and their recesses abandoned. 

To this place, after the banishment of his great master, 
Origen, Melanius, with a few faithful followers, retired, and 
there, by the example of his innocent life, as well as by his 
fervid eloquence, succeeded in winning crowds of converts 
to his faith. Placed, as he was, in the neighbourhood of 
the rich city, Antinoe, though he mingled not with its 
multitude, his name and his fame were ever among them, 



THE EPICUREAN. 165 

and, to all who sought after instruction or consolation, the 
cell of the hermit was always open. 

Notwithstanding the rigid abstinence of his own habits, 
he was yet careful to provide for the comforts of others. 
Content with a rude pallet of straw, himself, he had al- 
ways for the stranger a less homely resting-place. From 
his grotto, the wayfaring and the indigent never went un- 
refreshed ; and, with the aid of some of his brethren, he 
had formed gardens along the ledges of the mountain, 
which gave an air of life and cheerfulness to his rocky 
dwelling, and supplied him with the chief necessaries of 
such a climate, — fruit and shade. 

Though the acquaintance he had formed with the mo- 
ther of Alethe, during the short period of her attendance 
at the school of Origen, was soon interrupted, and never 
afterwards renewed, the interest which he had then taken 
in her fate was far too lively to be forgotten. He had seen 
the zeal with which her young heart welcomed instruc- 
tion ; and the thought that so promising a candidate for 
heaven should have relapsed into idolatry, came often, 
with disquieting apprehension, over his mind. 

It was, therefore, with true pleasure, that, but a year 
or two before Theora's death, he had learned by a private 
communication from her, transmitted through a Christian 
embalmer of Memphis, that " not only had her own heart 
taken root in the faith, but that a new bud had flowered 



166 THE EPICUREAN. 

with the same divine hope, and that, ere long, he might 
see them both transplanted to the desert." 

The coming, therefore, of Alethe was far less a surprise 
to him, than her coming thus alone was a shock and 
a sorrow ; and the silence of their first meeting showed 
how painfully both remembered that the tie which had 
brought them together was no longer of this world, — that 
the hand, which should have been then joined with theirs, 
was mouldering in the tomb. I now saw that not even re- 
ligion was proof against the sadness of mortality. For, as 
the old man put the ringlets aside from her forehead, and 
contemplated in that clear countenance the reflection of 
what her mother had been, there was a mournfulness 
mingled with his piety, as he said, " Heaven rest her soul!" 
which showed how little even the certainty of a heaven for 
those we love can reconcile us to the pain of having lost 
them on earth. 

The full light of day had now risen upon the desert, 
and our host, reminded, by the faint looks of Alethe, of 
the many anxious hours we had passed without sleep, 
proposed that we should seek, in the chambers of the 
rock, such rest as a hermit's dwelling could offer. Pointing 
to one of the largest of these openings, as he addressed 
me, — " Thou wilt find," he said, " in that grotto a bed of 
fresh doum leaves, and may the consciousness of having 
protected the orphan sweeten thy sleep ! " 



THE EPICUREAN. 167 

I felt how dearly this praise had been earned, and al- 
ready almost repented of having deserved it. There was 
a sadness in the countenance of Alethe, as I took leave 
of her, to which the forebodings of my own heart but too 
faithfully responded ; nor could I help fearing, as her 
hand parted lingeringly from mine, that I had, by this 
sacrifice, placed her beyond my reach for ever. 

Having lighted for me a lamp, which, in these recesses, 
even at noon, is necessary, the holy man led me to the 
entrance of the grotto. And here, I blush to say, my ca- 
reer of hypocrisy began. With the sole view of obtaining 
another glance at Alethe, I turned humbly to solicit the 
benediction of the Christian, and, having conveyed to her, 
while bending reverently down, as much of the deep feel- 
ing of my soul as looks could express, I then, with a de- 
sponding spirit, hurried into the cavern. 

A short passage led me to the chamber within, — the 
walls of which I found covered, like those of the grottos 
of Lycopolis, with paintings, which, though executed long 
ages ago, looked as fresh as if their colours were but laid 
on yesterday. They were, all of them, representations of 
rural and domestic scenes ; and, in the greater number, 
the melancholy imagination of the artist had called in, as 
usual, the presence of Death, to throw his shadow over the 
picture. 

My attention was particularly drawn to one series of 
subjects, throughout the whole of which the same group — 



168 THE EPICUREAN, 

consisting of a youth, a maiden, and two aged persons, who 
appeared to be the father and mother of the girl, — were 
represented in all the details of their daily life. The 
looks and attitudes of the young people denoted that they 
were lovers ; and, sometimes, they were seen sitting under 
a canopy of flowers, with their eyes fixed on each other's 
faces, as though they could never look away ; sometimes, 
they appeared walking along the banks of the Nile, 

on one of those sweet nights 



When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights 

Her bridal crescent o'er the holy stream, — 

When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam, 

And number o'er the nights she hath to run, 

Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. 



Through all these scenes of endearment the two elder 
persons stood by ; — their calm countenances touched with 
a share of that bliss, in whose perfect light the young lovers 
were basking. Thus far, all was happiness ; — but the sad 
lesson of mortality was yet to come. In the last picture of 
the series, one of the figures was missing. It was that of 
the young maiden, who had disappeared from among 
them. On the brink of a dark lake stood the three who 
remained ; while a boat, just departing for the City of 
the Dead, told too plainly the end of their dream of 
happiness. 

This memorial of a sorrow of other times — of a sorrow. 



THE EPICUREAN. 169 

ancient as death itself, — was not wanting to deepen the 
melancholy of my mind, or to add to the weight of the 
many bodings that pressed upon it. 

After a night, as it seemed, of anxious and unsleeping 
thought, I rose from my bed and returned to the garden. 
I found the Christian alone, — seated, under the shade of 
one of his trees, at a small table, with a volume unrolled 
before him, while a beautiful antelope lay sleeping at his 
feet. Struck forcibly by the contrast which he presented 
to those haughty priests, whom I had seen surrounded by 
the pomp and gorgeousness of temples, " Is this, then," 
thought I, " the faith before which the world now trem- 
bles — its temple the desert, its treasury a book, and its 
High Priest the solitary dweller of the rock?" 

He had prepared for me a simple, but hospitable repast, 
of which fruits from his own garden, the white bread of 
Olyra, and the juice of the honey-cane, were the most 
costly luxuries. His manner to me was even more cor- 
dial and fatherly than before ; but the absence of Alethe, 
and, still more, the ominous reserve, with which he not 
only, himself, refrained from all mention of her name, but 
eluded the few inquiries, by which I sought to lead to it, 
seemed to confirm all the apprehensions I had felt in 
parting from her. 

She had acquainted him, it was evident, with the whole 
history of our flight. My reputation as a philosopher — 
my desire to become a Christian — all was already known 



170 THE EPICUREAN. 

to the zealous Anchoret, and the subject of my conver- 
sion was the very first on which he entered. Oh, pride of 
philosophy, how wert thou then humbled, and with what 
shame did I stand in the presence of that venerable man, 
not daring to let my eyes meet his, while, with ingenuous 
trust in the sincerity of my intention, he welcomed me to 
a participation of his holy hope, and imprinted the Kiss of 
Charity on my infidel brow ! 

Embarrassed as I could not but feel by the humiliating 
consciousness of hypocrisy, I was even still more per- 
plexed by my almost total ignorance of the real tenets of 
the faith to which I professed myself a convert. Abashed 
and confused, and with a heart sick at its own deceit, 
I listened to the animated and eloquent gratulations of 
the Christian, as though they were words in a dream, 
without any link or meaning ; nor could disguise but by 
the mockery of a reverent bow, at every pause, the total 
want of self-possession, and even of speech, under which 
I laboured. 

A few minutes more of such trial, and I must have 
avowed my imposture. But the holy man saw my em- 
barrassment ; — and, whether mistaking it for awe, or 
knowing it to be ignorance, relieved me from my per- 
plexity by, at once, changing the theme. Having gently 
awakened his antelope from its sleep, " You have doubt- 
less," he said, " heard of my brother-anchoret, Paul, who, 
from his cave in the marble mountains, near the Red Sea, 



THE EPICUREAN. 171 

sends hourly the blessed ' sacrifice of thanksgiving' to 
heaven. Of his walks, they tell me, a lion is the companion ; 
but, for me," he added with a playful and significant smile, 
f who try my powers of taming but on the gentler ani- 
mals, this feeble child of the desert is a far fitter play- 
mate." Then, taking his staff, and putting the time-worn 
volume which he had been perusing into a large goat-skin 
pouch, that hung by his side, " I will now," said he, " con- 
duct thee over my rocky kingdom, — that thou mayest see 
in what drear and barren places that ' sweet fruit of the 
spirit/ Peace, may be gathered." 

To speak of peace to a heart throbbing, as mine did, at 
that moment, was like talking of some distant harbour to 
the mariner sinking at sea. In vain did I look around for 
some sign of Alethe ; — in vain make an effort even to 
utter her name. Consciousness of my own deceit, as well 
as a fear of awakening in the mind of Melanius any suspi- 
cion that might tend to frustrate my only hope, threw 
a fetter over my spirit and checked my tongue. In hum- 
ble silence, therefore, I followed, while the cheerful old 
man, with slow, but firm, step, ascended the rock, by the 
same ladders which I had mounted on the preceding 
night. 

During the time when the Decian Persecution was 
raging, many Christians, as he told me, of the neighbour- 
hood had taken refuge under his protection, in these 
grottos; and the small chapel upon the summit, where 



172 THE EPICUREAN. 

I had found his flock at prayer, was, in those awful times 
of suffering, their usual place of retreat, where, by draw- 
ing up these ladders, they were enabled to secure them- 
selves from pursuit. 

From the top of the rock, the view, on either side, em- 
braced the two extremes of fertility and desolation ; nor 
could the Epicurean and the Anchoret, who now stood 
gazing from that height, be at any loss to indulge their 
respective tastes, between the living luxuriance of the world 
on one side, and the dead, pulseless repose of the desert on 
the other. When we turned to the river, what a picture 
of animation presented itself! Near us to the south, were 
the graceful colonnades of Antinoe, its proud, populous 
streets, and triumphal monuments. On the opposite 
shore, rich plains, teeming with cultivation to the water's 
edge, offered up, as from verdant altars, their fruits to the 
sun ; while, beneath us, the Nile, 

the glorious stream, 

That late between its banks was seen to glide, — 
With shrines and marble cities, on each side, 
Glittering, like jewels strung along a chain, — 
Had now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain 
And valley, like a giant from his bed 
Rising with outstretch'd limbs, superbly spread. 

From this scene, on one side of the mountain, we had but 
to turn round our eyes to the other, and it was as if Na- 
ture herself had become suddenly extinct ; — a wide waste 



THE EPICUREAN. 173 

of sands, bleak and interminable, wearying out the sun 
with its sameness of desolation ; — black, burnt-up rocks, 
that stood as barriers, at which life stopped ; — while the 
only signs of animation, past or present, were the foot- 
prints, here and there, of an antelope or ostrich, or the 
bones of dead camels, as they lay whitening at a distance, 
marking out the track of the caravans over the waste. 

After listening, while he contrasted, in a few eloquent 
words, the two regions of life and death on whose con- 
fines we stood, I again descended with my guide to the 
garden we had left. From thence, turning into a path 
along the mountain-side, he conducted me to another 
row of grottos, facing the desert, which had once, he said, 
been the abode of those brethren in Christ, who had fled 
with him to this solitude from the crowded world, — but 
which death had, within a few short months, rendered 
tenantless. A cross of red stone, and a few faded trees, 
were the only traces these solitaries had left behind. 

A silence of some minutes succeeded, while we de- 
scended to the edge of the canal ; and I saw opposite, 
among the rocks, that solitary cave, which had so chilled 
me with its aspect on the preceding night. Beside the 
bank we found one of those rustic boats, which the Egyp- 
tians construct of planks of wild thorn, bound rudely to- 
gether with bands of papyrus. Placing ourselves in this 
boat, and rather impelling than rowing it across, we made 



174 THE EPICUREAN. 

our way through the foul and shallow flood, and landed 
directly under the site of the cave. 

This dwelling, as I have already mentioned, was situated 
upon a ledge of the rock ; and, being provided with a sort 
of window or aperture to admit the light of heaven, was 
accounted, I found, more cheerful than the grottos on 
the other side of the ravine. But there was a dreariness 
in the whole region around, to which light only lent ad- 
ditional horror. The dead whiteness of the rocks, as 
they stood, like ghosts, in the sunshine ; — that melancholy 
pool, half lost in the sands ;— all gave to my mind the 
idea of a wasting world. To dwell in such a place seemed 
to me like a living death ; and when the Christian, as we 
entered the cave, said, " Here is to be thy home," pre- 
pared as I had been for the worst, my resolution gave 
way ; — every feeling of disappointed passion and humbled 
pride, which had been gathering round my heart for the 
last few hours, found a vent at once, and I burst into 
tears. 

Accustomed to human weakness, and perhaps guessing 
at some of the sources of mine, the good Hermit, without 
appearing to take any notice of this emotion, proceeded to 
expatiate, with a cheerful air, on, what he called, the com. 
forts of my dwelling. Sheltered from the dry, burning wind 
of the south, my porch would inhale, he said, the fresh 
breeze of the Dog-star. Fruits from his own mountain- 



THE EPICUREAN. 175 

garden should furnish my repast. The well of the neigh- 
bouring rock would supply my beverage ; and " here," he 
continued, — lowering his voice into a more solemn tone, as 
he placed upon the table the volume which he had brought, 
— " here, my son, is that c well of living waters/ in which 
alone thou wilt find lasting refreshment or peace ! " Thus 
saying, he descended the rock to his boat, and after a few 
plashes of his oar had died upon my ear, the solitude and 
silence that reigned around me was complete. 



176 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



What a fate was mine! — but a few weeks since, pre- 
siding over that gay Festival of the Garden, with all the 
luxuries of existence tributary in my train ; and now, — 
self-humbled into a solitary outcast, — the hypocritical 
pupil of a Christian anchoret, — without even the excuse 
of religious fanaticism, or any other madness, but that of 
love, wild love, to extenuate my fall ! Were there a hope 
that, by this humiliating waste of existence, I might pur- 
chase now and then a momentary glimpse of Alethe, even 
the depths of the desert, with such a chance, would be 
welcome. But to live — and live thus — without her, was 
a misery which I neither foresaw nor could endure. 

Hating even to look upon the den to which I was 
doomed, I hurried out into the air, and found my way, 
along the rocks, to the desert. The sun was going down, 
with that blood-red hue, which he so frequently wears, in 
this climate, at his setting. I saw the sands, stretching 
out, like a sea to the horizon, as if their waste extended 
to the very verge of the world, — and, in the bitter- 



THE EPICUREAN. 177 

ness of my feelings, rejoiced to see so large a portion of 
creation rescued, even by this barren liberty, from the 
encroaching grasp of man. The thought seemed to relieve 
my wounded pride, and, as I wandered over the dim and 
boundless solitude, to be thus free, even amidst blight and 
desolation, appeared to me a blessing. 

The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, 
whose wings were of the hue of the gray sands over which 
he fluttered. " Why (thought I) may not the mind, like 
this bird, partake of the colour of the desert, and sympa- 
thize in its austerity, its freedom, and its calm ?" — thus 
vainly endeavouring, between despondence and defiance, 
to encounter with some degree of fortitude what yet my 
heart sickened to contemplate. But the effort was un- 
availing. Overcome by that vast solitude, whose repose 
was not the slumber of peace, but rather the sullen and 
burning silence of hate, I felt my spirit give way, and even 
love itself yielded to despair. 

Seating myself on a fragment of a rock, and covering 
my eyes with my hands, I made an effort to shut out the 
overwhelming prospect. But all in vain — it was still be- 
fore me, with every additional horror that fancy could 
suggest ; and when, again looking forth, I saw the last red 
ray of the sun, shooting across the melancholy and life- 
less waste, it appeared to me like the light of that comet 
which once desolated this world, and thus luridly shone 
out over the ruin that it had made ! 

N 



178 THE EPICUREAN. 

Appalled by my own gloomy imaginations, I turned 
towards the ravine ; and, notwithstanding the disgust with 
which I had fled from my dwelling, was not ill pleased to 
find my way, over the rocks, to it again. On approach- 
ing the cave, to my astonishment, I saw a light within. 
At such a moment, any vestige of life was welcome, and 
I hailed the unexpected appearance with pleasure. On 
entering, however, I found the chamber all as lonely as 
I had left it. The light I had seen came from a lamp 
that burned brightly on the table ; beside it was unfolded 
the volume which Melanius had brought, and upon the 
open leaves — oh, joy and surprise — lay the well-known 
cross of Alethe ! 

What hand, but her own, could have prepared this re- 
ception for me ? — The very thought sent a hope into my 
heart, before which all despondency fled. Even the gloom 
of the desert was forgotten, and my rude cave at once 
brightened into a bower. She had here reminded me, 
by this sacred memorial, of the vow which I had pledged 
to her under the Hermit's rock ; and I now scrupled not 
to reiterate the same daring promise, though conscious 
that through hypocrisy alone could I fulfil it. 

Eager to prepare myself for my task of imposture, I sat 
down to the volume, which I now found to be the Hebrew- 
Scriptures ; and the first sentence, on which my eyes fell, 
was — " The Lord hath commanded the blessing, even 
Life for evermore!" Startled by those words, in which it 



THE EPICUREAN. 179 

appeared to me as if the Spirit of my dream bad again 
pronounced his assuring prediction, I raised my eyes from 
the page, and repeated the sentence over and over, as if 
to try whether the sounds had any charm or spell, to re- 
awaken that faded illusion in my soul. But, no — the 
rank frauds of the Memphian priesthood had dispelled all 
my trust in the promises of religion. My heart had again 
relapsed into its gloom of scepticism, and, to the word of 
" Life," the only answer it sent back was, " Death !" 

Impatient, however, to possess myself of the elements 
of a faith, upon which — whatever it might promise for 
hereafter — I felt that all my happiness here depended, 
I turned over the pages with an earnestness and avidity, 
such as never even the most favourite of my studies had 
awakened in me. Though, like all who seek but the sur- 
face of learning, I flew desultorily over the leaves, lighting 
only on the more prominent and shining points, I yet 
found myself, even in this undisciplined career, arrested, 
at every page, by the awful, the supernatural sublimity, 
the alternate melancholy and grandeur of the images that 
crowded upon me. 

I had, till now, known the Hebrew theology but through 
the platonising refinement of Philo ; — as, in like manner, 
for my knowledge of the Christian doctrine I was indebted 
to my brother Epicureans, Lucian and Celsus. Little, 
therefore, was my mind prepared for the simple majesty, 
the high tone of inspiration, — the poetry, in short, of 
n 2 



180 THE EPICUREAN. 

heaven, that breathed throughout these oracles. Could 
admiration have kindled faith, I should, that night, have 
been a believer ; so elevated, so awed was my imagination 
by that wonderful book, — its warnings of woe, its an- 
nouncements of glory, and its unrivalled strains of adora- 
tion and sorrow. 

Hour after hour, with the same eager and desultory 
curiosity, did I turn over the leaves ; — and when, at length, 
I lay down to rest, my fancy was still haunted by the im- 
pressions it had received. I went again through the va- 
rious scenes of which I had read ; again called up, in 
sleep, the bright images that had passed before me, and, 
when awakened at dawn by the solemn Hymn from the 
chapel, imagined that I was still listening to the sound 
of the winds, sighing mournfully through the harps of 
Israel on the willows. 

Starting from my bed, I hurried out upon the rock, 
with a hope that, among the tones of that morning choir, 
I might be able to distinguish the sweet voice of Alethe. 
But the strain had ceased ; — I caught only the last notes 
of the Hymn, as, echoing up that lonely valley, they died 
away into the silence of the desert. 

With the first glimpse of light I was again eagerly at my 
study, and, notwithstanding the frequent distraction both 
of my thoughts and looks towards the distant, half-seen 
grottos of the Anchoret, continued my task with unabating 
perseverance through the day. Still alive, however, but 



THE EPICUREAN.. 181 

to the eloquence, the poetry of what I read, of its claims 
to authority, as a history, I never paused to consider. 
My fancy alone being interested by it, to fancy I referred 
all that it contained ; and, passing rapidly from annals to 
prophecy, from narration to song, regarded the whole but 
as a tissue of oriental allegories, in which the deep melan- 
choly of Egyptian associations was interwoven with the 
rich and sensual imagery of the East. 

Towards sunset I saw the venerable Hermit, on his 
way, across the canal, to my cave. Though he was accom- 
panied only by his graceful antelope, which came snuff- 
ing the wild air of the desert, as if scenting its home, 
I felt his visit, even thus, to be a most welcome relief. 
It was the hour, he said, of his evening ramble up the 
mountain, — of his accustomed visit to those cisterns of 
the rock, from which he nightly drew his most precious 
beverage. While he spoke, I observed in his hand one 
of those earthen cups, in which it is the custom of the 
inhabitants of the wilderness to collect the fresh dew 
among the rocks. Having proposed that I should accom- 
pany him in his walk, he proceeded to lead me, in the 
direction of the desert, up the side of the mountain that 
rose above my dwelling, and which formed the southern 
wall or screen of the defile. 

Near the summit we found a seat, where the old man 
paused to rest. It commanded a full view over the desert, 
and was by the side of one of those hollows in the rock, 



182 THE EPICUREAN. 

those natural reservoirs, in which are treasured the dews 
of night for the refreshment of the dwellers in the wilder- 
ness. Having learned from me how far I had advanced in 
my study, — " In yonder light," said he, pointing to a small 
cloud in the east, which had been formed on the horizon 
by the haze of the desert, and was now faintly reflecting 
the splendours of sunset, — " in the midst of that light 
stands Mount Sinai, of whose glory thou hast read ; upon 
whose summit was the scene of one of those awful reve- 
lations, in which the Almighty has renewed from time to 
time, his communication with Man, and kept alive th« 
remembrance of his own Providence in this world." 

After a pause, as if absorbed in the immensity of the 
subject, the holy man continued his sublime theme. Look- 
ing back to the earliest annals of time, he showed how 
constantly every relapse of the human race into idolatry 
has been followed by some manifestation of divine power, 
chastening the strong and proud by punishment, and win- 
ning back the humble by love. It was to preserve, he 
said, unextinguished upon earth, that great and vital 
truth, — the Creation of the world by one Supreme Being, 
— that God chose, from among the nations, an humble 
and enslaved race, — that he brought them out of their 
captivity " on eagles' wings," and, surrounding every step 
of their course with miracles, has placed them before the 
eyes of all succeeding generations, as the depositaries of 
his will, and the ever-during memorials of his power. 



THE EPICUREAN. 183 

Passing, then, in review the long train of inspired in- 
terpreters, whose pens and whose tongues were made the 
echoes of the Divine voice, he traced,* throughout the 
events of successive ages, the gradual unfolding of the 
dark scheme of Providence — darkness without, but all 
light and glory within. The glimpses of a coming re- 
demption, visible even through the wrath of Heaven ; — 
the long series of prophecy through which this hope runs, 
burning and alive, like a spark along a chain ; — the slow 
and merciful preparation of the hearts of mankind for the 
great trial of their faith and obedience that was at hand, 
not only by miracles that appealed to the living, but by 
prophecies launched into the future to carry conviction to 
the yet unborn ; — " through all these glorious and bene- 
ficent gradations we may track," said he, " the manifest 
footsteps of a Creator, advancing to his grand, ultimate 
end, the salvation of his creatures." 

After some hours devoted to these holy instructions, 
we returned to the ravine, and Melanius left me at my 
cave ; praying, as he parted from me, — with a benevo- 
lence which I but ill, alas ! deserved, — that my soul 
might, under these lessons, be " as a watered garden," 
and, ere long, " bear fruit unto life eternal." 

Next morning, I was again at my study, and even more 
eager in the awakening task than before. With the com- 

* In the original, the discourses of the Hermit are given much mora 
at length. 



184 THE EPICUREAN. 

mentary of the Hermit freshly in my memory, I again read 
through, with attention, the Book of the Law. But in vain 
did I seek the promise of immortality in its pages. " It tells 
me," said I, " of a God coming down to earth, but of the 
ascent of Man to heaven it speaks not. The rewards, 
the punishments it announces, lie all on this side of the 
grave ; nor did even the Omnipotent offer to his own 
chosen servants a hope beyond the impassable limits of 
this world. Where, then, is the salvation of which the 
Christian spoke ? or, if Death be at the root of the faith, 
can Life spring out of it ?" 

Again, in the bitterness of disappointment, did I mock 
at my own willing self-delusion, — again rail at the arts of 
that traitress, Fancy, ever ready, like the Delilah of this 
wondrous book, to steal upon the slumbers of Reason, and 
deliver him up, shorn and powerless, to his foes. If de- 
ception — thought I, with a sigh — be necessary, at least 
let me not practise it on myself; — in the desperate alterna- 
tive before me, let me rather be even hypocrite than dupe. 

These self-accusing reflections, cheerless as they ren- 
dered my task, did not abate, for a single moment, my 
industry in pursuing it. I read on and on, with a sort of 
sullen apathy, neither charmed by style, nor transported 
by imagery, — that fatal blight in my heart having commu- 
nicated itself to my imagination and taste. The curses 
and the blessings, the glory and the ruin, which the his- 
torian recorded and the prophet had predicted, seemed 



THE EPICUREAN. 185 

all of this world, — all temporal and earthly. That morta- 
lity., of which the fountain-head had tasted, tinged the 
whole stream ; and when I read the words, " all are of the 
dust, and all turn to dust again," a feeling, like the wind 
of the desert came witheringly over me. Love, Beauty, 
Glory, every thing most bright and worshipped upon earth, 
appeared sinking before my eyes, under this dreadful doom, 
into one general mass of corruption and silence. 

Possessed by the image of desolation I had thus called up, 
I laid my head upon the book, in a paroxysm of despair. 
Death, in all his most ghastly varieties, passed before me; 
and I had continued thus for some time, as under the in- 
fluence of a fearful vision, when the touch of a hand upon 
my shoulder roused me. Looking up, I saw the Ancho- 
ret standing by my side ; — his countenance beaming with 
that sublime tranquillity, which a hope, beyond this earth, 
alone can bestow. How I did envy him I 

We again took our way to the seat upon the moun- 
tain, — the gloom within my own mind making every thing 
around me more gloomy. Forgetting my hypocrisy in my 
feelings, I proceeded to make, at once, an avowal to him 
of all the doubts and fears which my study of the morning 
had awakened. 

" Thou art yet, my son," he answered, " but on the 
threshold of our faith. Thou hast seen but the first ru- 
diments of the Divine plan ; — its full and consummate per-' 
fection hath not yet opened upon thy mind. However 



186 THE EPICUREAN. 

glorious that manifestation of Divinity on Mount Sinai, 
it was but the forerunner of another, still more glorious, 
which, in the fulness of time, was to burst upon the 
world ; when all, that had seemed dim and incomplete, 
was to be perfected, and the promises, shadowed out by 
the ' spirit of prophecy, 7 realized ; — when the silence, that 
lay, as a seal, on the future, was to be broken, and the 
glad tidings of life and immortality proclaimed to the 
world!" 

Observing my features brighten at these words, the 
pious man continued. Anticipating some of the holy 
knowledge that was in store for me, he traced, through 
all its wonders and mercies, the great work of Redemp- 
tion, dwelling in detail upon every miraculous circumstance 
connected with it, — the exalted nature of the Being, by 
whose ministry it was accomplished, the noblest and first 
created of the Sons of God, inferior only, to the one, 
self-existent, Father ; — the nvysterious incarnation of this 
heavenly messenger ; — the miracles that authenticated his 
divine mission ; — the example of obedience to God and 
love to man, which he set, as a shining light, before th« 
world for ever; — and, lastly and chiefly, his death and 
resurrection, by which the covenant of mercy was sealed, 
and " life and immortality brought to light." 

" Such," continued the Hermit, " was the Mediator, 
promised through all time, to ' make reconciliation for 
iniquity,' to change death into life, and bring ' healing on 



THE EPICUREAN. 187 

his wings' to a darkened world. Such was the last crown- 
ing dispensation of that God of benevolence, in whose 
hands sin and death are but instruments of everlasting 
good, and who, through apparent evil and temporary re- 
tribution, bringing all things ' out of darkness into his 
marvellous light/ proceeds watchfully and unchangingly 
to the great, final object of his providence, — the restora- 
tion of the whole human race to purity and happiness 1" 

With a mind astonished, if not touched, by these dis- 
courses, I returned to my cave, and found the lamp, as 
before, ready lighted to receive me. The volume which 
I had been hitherto studying, was replaced by another, 
which lay open upon the table, with a branch of fresh 
palm between its leaves. Though I could not doubt to 
whose gentle and guardian hand I was indebted for this 
invisible watchfulness over my studies, there was yet 
a something in it, so like spiritual interposition, that it 
struck me with awe ; — and never more than at this mo- 
ment, when, on approaching the volume, I saw, as the 
light glistened over its silver letters, that it was the very 
Book of Life of which the Hermit had spoken ! 

The midnight hymn of the Christians had sounded 
through the valley, before I had yet raised my eyes from 
that sacred volume ; and the second hour of the sun found 
me again over its pages. 



188 THE EPICUREAN. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



In this mode of existence I had now passed some days ; 
— my mornings devoted to reading, my nights to listen- 
ing, under the wide canopy of heaven, to the holy elo- 
quence of Melanius. The perseverance with which I 
inquired, and the quickness with which I learned, soon 
succeeded in deceiving my benevolent instructor, who 
mistook curiosity for zeal, and knowledge for belief. 
Alas ! cold, and barren, and earthly was that knowledge, 
— the word without the spirit, the shape without the life. 
Even when, as a relief from hypocrisy, I persuaded myself 
that I believed, it was but a brief delusion, a faith, whose 
hope crumbled at the touch, — like the fruit of the desert- 
shrub, shining and empty ! 

But, though my soul was still dark, the good Hermit 
saw not into its depths. The very facility of my belief, 
which might have suggested some doubt of its sincerity, 
was but regarded, by his innocent zeal, as a more signal 
triumph of the truth. His own ingenuousness led him to 
a ready trust in others ; and the examples of such con- 



THE EPICUREAN. 189 

version as that of the philosopher, Justin, who, during 
a walk by the sea-shore, received the light into his soul, 
had prepared him for illumination of the spirit, even 
more rapid than mine. 

During all this time, I neither saw nor heard of Alethe ; 
— nor could my patience have endured through so long a 
privation, had not those mute vestiges of her presence, that 
welcomed me every night on my return, made me feel that 
I was still living under her gentle influence, and that her 
sympathy hung round every step of my progress. Once, 
too, when I ventured to speak her name to Melanius, though 
he answered not my inquiry, there was a smile, I thought, 
of promise upon his countenance, which love, far more 
alive than faith, was ready to interpret as it desired. 

At length, — it was on the sixth or seventh evening of 
my solitude, when I lay resting at the door of my cave, 
after the study of the day, — I was startled by hearing my 
name called loudly from the opposite rocks ; and looking 
up, saw, upon the cliff near the deserted grottos, Mela- 
nius and — oh! I could not doubt — my Alethe by his 
side! 

Though I had never, since the first night of my 
return from the desert, ceased to flatter myself with the 
fancy that I was still living in her presence, the actual 
sight of her again made me feel for what a long age we 
had been separated. She was clothed all in white, and, 
as she stood in the last remains of the sunshine, appeared 



190 THE EPICUREAN. 

to my too prophetic fancy like a parting spirit, whose last 
footsteps on earth that pure glory encircled. 

With a delight only to be imagined, I saw them descend 
the rocks, and, placing themselves in the boat, proceed 
directly towards my cave. To disguise from Melanius 
the mutual delight with which we again met was impos- 
sible ; — nor did Alethe even attempt to make a secret of 
her joy. Though blushing at her own happiness, as little 
could her frank nature conceal it, as the clear waters of 
Ethiopia can hide their gold. Every look, every word, 
bespoke a fulness of affection, to which, doubtful as I was 
of our tenure of happiness, I knew not how to respond. 

I was not long, however, left ignorant of the bright 
fate that awaited me; but, as we wandered or rested 
among the rocks, learned every thing that had been ar- 
ranged since our parting. She had made the Hermit, 
I found, acquainted with all that had passed between us ; 
had told him, without reserve, every incident of our voy- 
age, — the avowals, the demonstrations of affection on one 
side, and the deep sentiment that gratitude had awakened 
on the other. Too wise to regard affections so natural, 
with severity, — knowing that they were of heaven, and 
but made evil by man, — the good Hermit had heard of our 
attachment with pleasure ; and, fully satisfied, as to the 
honour and purity of my views, by the fidelity with which 
I had delivered up my trust into his hands, saw, in my 
affection for the young orphan, but a providential resource 



THE EPICUREAN. 191 

against that friendless solitude in which his death must 
soon leave her. 

As, listening eagerly, I collected these particulars from 
their discourse, I could hardly trust my ears. It seemed 
a happiness too great to be true, to be real ; nor can words 
convey any idea of the joy, the shame, the wonder with 
which I listened, while the holy man himself declared 
that he awaited but the moment, when he should find me 
worthy of becoming a member of the Christian Church, 
to give me also the hand of Alethe in that sacred union, 
which alone sanctifies love, and makes the faith, which it 
pledges, holy. It was but yesterday, he added, that his 
young charge, herself, after a preparation of prayer and 
repentance, such as even her pure spirit required, had 
been admitted, by the sacred ordinance of baptism, into 
the bosom of the faith; — and the white garment she 
wore, and the ring of gold on her finger, " were symbols," 
he added, " of that New Life into which she had been 
initiated." 

I raised my eyes to hers as he spoke, but withdrew 
them again, dazzled and confused. Even her beauty, to 
my imagination, seemed to have undergone some bright- 
ening change ; and the contrast between that open and 
happy countenance, and the unblest brow of the infidel 
that stood before her, abashed me into a sense of unwor- 
thiness, and almost checked my rapture. 

To that night, however, I look back, as an epoch in my 



192 THE EPICUREAN. 

existence. It proved that sorrow is not the only awakener 
of devotion, but that joy may sometimes call the holy 
spark into life. Returning to my cave, with a heart full, 
even to oppression, of its happiness, I could find no other 
relief to my overcharged feelings, than that of throwing 
myself on my knees, and, for the first time in my life, 
uttering a prayer, that if, indeed, there were a Being who 
watched over mankind, he would send down one ray of 
his truth into my darkened soul, and make it worthy of 
the blessings, both here and hereafter, proffered to it ! 

My days now rolled on in a perfect dream of happiness. 
Every hour of the morning was welcomed as bringing 
nearer and nearer the blest time of sunset, when the Her- 
mit and Alethe never failed to visit my now charmed 
cave, where her smile left, at each parting, a light that 
lasted till her return. Then, our rambles together, by star- 
light, over the mountain ; — our pauses, from time to time, to 
contemplate the wonders of the bright heaven above us ; 
our repose by the cistern of the rock, and our silent listen- 
ing, through hours that appeared minutes, to the holy elo- 
quence of our teacher ;— all, all was happiness of the most 
heartfelt kind, and such as even the doubts, the cold, lin- 
gering doubts, that still hung, like a mist, around my 
heart, could neither cloud nor chill. 

As soon as the moonlight nights returned, we used to 
venture into the desert ; and those sands, which had 
looked but lately so desolate, in my eyes, now assumed 



THE EPICUREAN. 193 

even a cheerful and smiling aspect. To the light, inno- 
cent heart of Alethe, every thing was a source of enjoy- 
ment. For her, even the desert had its jewels and flowers ; 
and, sometimes, her delight was to search among the 
sands for those beautiful pebbles of jasper that abound in 
them ; — sometimes her eyes sparkled on finding, perhaps, 
a stunted marigold, or one of those bitter, scarlet flowers, 
that lend their dry mockery of ornament to the desert. 
In all these pursuits and pleasures the good Hermit took 
a share, — mingling with them occasionally the reflections 
of a benevolent piety, that lent its own cheerful hue to 
all the works of creation, and saw the consoling truth, 
" God is Love," written legibly every where. 

Such was, for a few weeks, my blissful life. Oh, morn- 
ings of hope, oh, nights of happiness, with what melancholy 
pleasure do I retrace your flight, and how reluctantly 
pass to the sad events that followed I 

During this time, in compliance with the wishes of 
Melanius, who seemed unwilling that I should become 
wholly estranged from the world, I used occasionally to 
pay a visit to the neighbouring city, Antinoe, which, as 
the capital of the Thebaid, is the centre of all the luxury 
of Upper Egypt. But here, so changed was my every 
feeling by the all-absorbing passion which now possessed 
me, that I sauntered, uninterested and unamusedby either 
the scenes or the people that surrounded me, and, sigh- 
o 



194 THE EPICUREAN. 

ing for that rocky solitude where Alethe breathed, felt 
this to be the wilderness, and that the world. 

Even the thoughts of my own native Athens, that were 
called up, at every step, by the light Grecian architecture 
of this imperial city, did not awaken one single regret in 
my heart — one wish to exchange even an hour of my 
desert for the best luxuries and honours that awaited me 
in the Garden. I saw the arches of triumph ; — I walked 
under the superb portico, which encircles the whole city 
with its marble shade ; — I stood in the Circus of the Sun, 
by whose rose-coloured pillars the mysterious movements 
of the Nile are measured; — on all these bright ornaments 
of glory and art, as well as on the gay multitude that en- 
livened them, I looked with an unheeding eye. If they 
awakened in me any thought, it was the mournful idea, 
that, one day, like Thebes and Heliopolis, this pageant 
would pass away, leaving nothing behind but a few mould- 
ering ruins, — like the sea-shells found where the ocean 
has been, — to tell that the great tide of Life was once 
there ! 

But, though indifferent thus to all that had formerly 
attracted me, there were subjects, once alien to my heart, 
on which it was now most tremblingly alive ; and some 
rumours which had reached me, in one of my visits to the 
city, of an expected change in the policy of the Emperor 
towards the Christians, filled my mind with apprehen- 
sions as new as they were dreadful to me. 



THE EPICUREAN. 195 

The peace and even favour which the Christians en- 
joyed, during the first four years of the reign of Valerian, 
had removed from them all fear of a renewal of those 
horrors, which they had experienced under the rule of his 
predecessor, Decius. Of late, however, some less friendly 
dispositions had manifested themselves. The bigots of 
the court, taking alarm at the spread of the new faith, 
had succeeded in filling the mind of the monarch with 
that religious jealousy, which is the ever-ready parent of 
cruelty and injustice. Among these counsellors of evil 
was Macrianus, the Praetorian Prefect, who was, by birth, 
an Egyptian, and had long made himself notorious, — so 
akin is superstition to intolerance, — by his addiction to the 
dark practices of demon-worship and magic. 

From this minister, who was now high in the favour of 
Valerian, the new measures of severity against the Chris- 
tians, were expected to emanate. All tongues, in all 
quarters, were busy with the news. In the streets, in the 
public gardens, on the steps of the temples, I saw, every 
where, groups of inquirers collected, and heard the name 
of Macrianus upon every tongue. It was dreadful, too, 
to observe, in the countenances of those who spoke, the 
variety of feeling with which the rumour was discussed, 
according as they desired or dreaded its truth, — according 
as they were likely to be among the torturers or the 
victims. 

o 2 



196 THE EPICUREAN. 

Alarmed, though still ignorant of the whole extent of 
the danger, I hurried back to the ravine, and, going at 
once to the grotto of Melanius, detailed to him every par- 
ticular of the intelligence I had collected. He listened 
to me with a composure, which I mistook, alas! for confi- 
dence in his own security ; and, naming the hour for our 
evening walk, retired into his grotto. 

At the accustomed time, accompanied by Alethe, he 
came to my cave. It was evident that he had not com- 
municated to her the intelligence which I had brought, 
for never did brow wear such happiness as that which 
now played around hers : — it was, alas ! not of this earth. 
Melanius, himself, though composed, was thoughtful; 
and the solemnity, almost approaching to melancholy, 
with which he placed the hand of Alethe in mine — in 
the performance, too, of a ceremony that ought to have 
filled my heart with joy — saddened and alarmed me. 
This ceremony was our betrothment, the act of plighting 
our faith to each other, which we now solemnized on the 
rock before the door of my cave, in the face of that calm, 
sunset heaven, whose one star stood as our witness. After 
a blessing from the Hermit upon our spousal pledge, 
I placed the ring — the earnest of our future union — on 
her finger ; and, in the blush, with which she surrendered 
to me her whole heart at that instant, forgot every thing 
but my happiness, and felt secure even against fate ! 



THE EPICUREAN. 197 

We took our accustomed walk over the rocks and on 
the desert. So bright was the moon — more like the day- 
light, indeed, of other climes, — that we could see plainly 
the tracks of the wild antelopes in the sand ; and it was not 
without a slight tremble of feeling in his voice, as if some 
melancholy analogy occurred to him as he spoke, that the 
good Hermit said, " I have observed in the course of my 
walks, that wherever the track of that gentle animal ap- 
pears, there is, almost always, the foot-print of a beast of 
prey near it." He regained, however, his usual cheerful- 
ness before we parted, and fixed the following evening for 
an excursion, on the other side of the ravine, to a point 
looking, he said, " towards that northern region of the 
desert, where the hosts of the Lord encamped in their 
departure out of bondage." 

Though, when Alethe was present, all my fears even 
for herself, were forgotten in that perpetual element of hap- 
piness, which encircled her like the air that she breathed, 
no sooner was I alone, than vague terrors and bodings 
crowded upon me. In vain did I try to reason myself 
out of my fears, by dwelling only on the most cheering 
circumstances, — on the reverence with which Melanius 
was regarded, even by the Pagans, and the inviolate 
security with which he had lived through the most peril- 
ous periods, not only safe himself, but affording sanctuary 
in the depths of his grottos to others. Though somewhat 



198 THE EPICUREAN. 

calmed by these considerations, yet when I at length sunk 
off to sleep, dark, horrible dreams took possession of my 
mind. Scenes of death and of torment passed confusedly 
before me ; and, when I awoke, it was with the fearful 
impression that all these horrors were real. 



THE EPICUREAN. 199 



CHAPTER XIX. 



At length, the day dawned, — that dreadful day. Im- 
patient to be relieved from my suspense, I threw myself 
into my boat, — the same in which we had performed our 
happy voyage, — and, as fast as oars could speed me, hur- 
ried away to the city. I found the suburbs silent and 
solitary, but, as I approached the Forum, loud yells, like 
those of barbarians in combat, struck on my ear, and, when 
I entered it, — great God, what a spectacle presented it- 
self! The imperial edict against the Christians had ar- 
rived during the night, and already the wild fury of bigotry 
was let loose. 

Under a canopy, in the middle of the Forum, was the 
tribunal of the Governor. Two statues, — one of Apollo, 
the other of Osiris, — stood at the bottom of the steps that 
led up to his judgment-seat. Before these idols were 
shrines, to which the devoted Christians were dragged 
from all quarters by the soldiers and mob, and there com- 
pelled to recant, by throwing incense into the flame, or, 
on their refusal, hurried away to torture and death. It 



200 THE EPICUREAN. 

was an appalling scene ; — the consternation, the cries of 
some of the victims, — the pale, silent resolution of others * 
— the fierce shouts of laughter that broke from the multi- 
tude, when the dropping of the frankincense on the altar, 
proclaimed some denier of Christ ; and the fiend-like tri- 
umph with which the courageous Confessors, who avowed 
their faith, were led away to the flames ; — never could 
I have conceived such an assemblage of horrors ! 

Though I gazed but for a few minutes, in those minutes 
I felt and fancied enough for years. Already did the form 
of Alethe appear to flit before me through that tumult; — 
I heard them shout her name ; — her shriek fell on my 
ear ; and the very thought so palsied me with terror, that 
I stood fixed and statue-like on the spot. 

Recollecting, however, the fearful preciousness of every 
moment, and that — perhaps, at this very instant — some 
emissaries of blood might be on their way to the Grottos, 
I rushed wildly out of the Forum, and made my way to 
the quay. 

The streets were now crowded; but I ran -headlong 
through the multitude, and was already under the portico 
leading down to the river, — already saw the boat that was 
to bear me to Alethe, — when a Centurion stood sternly 
in my path, and I was surrounded and arrested by sol- 
diers ! It was in vain that I implored, that I struggled 
with them as for life, assuring them that I was a stranger, 
— that I was an Athenian, — that I was — not a Christian. 



THE EPICUREAN. 201 

The precipitation of my flight was sufficient evidence 
against me, and unrelentingly, and by force, they bore me 
away to the quarters of their Chief. 

It was enough to drive me at once to madness! Two 
hours, two frightful hours, was I kept waiting the arrival 
of the Tribune of their Legion* — my brain burning with 
a thousand fears and imaginations, which every passing 
minute made but more likely to be realized. All I could 
collect, too, from the conversations of those around me but 
added to the agonizing apprehensions with which I was 
racked. Troops, it was said, had been sent in all direc- 
tions through the neighbourhood, to bring in the rebel- 
lious Christians, and make them bow before the Gods of 
the Empire. With horror, too, I heard of Orcus, — Orcus, 
the High Priest of Memphis, — as one of the principal in- 
stigators of this sanguinary edict, and as here present in 
Antinoe, animating and directing its execution. 

In this state of torture I remained till the arrival of the 
Tribune. Absorbed in my own thoughts, I had not per- 
ceived his entrance ; — till, hearing a voice, in a tone of 
friendly surprise, exclaim, " Alciphron ! " I looked up, 
and in this legionary Chief recognised a young Roman of 
rank, who had held a military command, the year before, 
at Athens, and was one of the most distinguished visiters 
of the Garden. It was no time, however, for courtesies ; 

* A rank, resembling that of Colonel. 



202 



THE EPICUREAN. 



— he was proceeding with all cordiality to greet me, but, 
having heard him order my instant release, I could wait 
for no more. Acknowledging his kindness but by a grasp 
of the hand, I flew off, like one frantic, through the streets, 
and, in a few minutes, was on the river. 

My sole hope had been to reach the Grottos before any 
of the detached parties should arrive, and, by a timely 
flight across the desert, rescue, at least, Alethe from their 
fury. The ill-fated delay that had occurred rendered this 
hope almost desperate ; but the tranquillity I found every 
where as I proceeded down the river, and my fond confi- 
dence in the sacredness of the Hermit's retreat, kept my 
heart from sinking altogether under its terrors. 

Between the current and my oars, the boat flew, with 
the speed of wind, along the waters ; and I was already near 
the rocks of the ravine, when I saw, turning out of the canal 
into the river, a barge crowded with people, and glitter- 
ing with arms ! How did I ever survive the shock of that 
sight? The oars dropped, as if struck out of my hands, 
into the water, and I sat, helplessly gazing, as that terrific 
vision approached. In a few minutes, the current brought 
us together; — and I saw, on the deck of the barge, Alethe 
herself and the Hermit surrounded by soldiers ! 

We were already passing each other when, with a des- 
perate effort, I sprang from my boat and lighted upon the 
edge of their vessel. I knew not what I did, for despair 
was my only prompter. Snatching at the sword of one 



THE EPICUREAN. 203 

of the soldiers, as I stood tottering on the edge, I had 
succeeded in wresting it out of his hands, when, at the 
same moment, I received a thrust of a lance from one of 
his comrades, and fell backward into the river. I can just 
remember rising again and making a grasp at the side of 
the vessel ; — but the shock, and the faintness from my 
wound, deprived me of all consciousness, and a shriek from 
Alethe, as I sunk, is all I can recollect of what followed. 

Would I had then died ! — Yet, no, Almighty Being— 
I should have died in darkness, and I have lived to know 
Thee! 

On returning to my senses, I found myself reclined on 
a couch, in a splendid apartment, the whole appearance of 
which being Grecian, I, for a moment, forgot all that had 
passed, and imagined myself in my own home at Athens. 
But too soon the whole dreadful certainty flashed upon 
me ; and, starting wildly — disabled as I was — from my 
couch, I called loudly, and with the shriek of a maniac, 
upon Alethe. 

I was in the house, I then found, of my friend and dis- 
ciple, the young Tribune, who had made the Governor 
acquainted with my name and condition, and had received 
me under his roof, when brought, bleeding and insensible, 
to Antinoe. From him I now learned at once, — for I 
could not wait for details, — the sum of all that had hap- 
pened in that dreadful interval. Melanius was no more, — 
Alethe, still alive, but in prison ! 



204 THE EPICUREAN. 

" Take me to her," — I had but time to say, — " take me 
to her instantly, and let me die by her side," — when, na- 
ture again failing under such shocks, I relapsed into in- 
sensibility. In this state I continued for near an hour, 
and, on recovering, found the Tribune by my side. The 
horrors, he said, of the Forum were, for that day, over, — 
but what the morrow might bring, he shuddered to con- 
template. His nature, it was plain, revolted from the in- 
human duties in which he was engaged. Touched by the 
agonies he saw me suffer, he, in some degree, relieved 
them, by promising that I should, at nightfall, be con- 
veyed to the prison, and, if possible, through his influence, 
gain access to Alethe. She might yet, he added, be 
saved, could I succeed in persuading her to comply with 
the terms of the edict, and make sacrifice to the Gods. — 
" Otherwise," said he, " there is no hope ; — the vindic- 
tive Orcus, who has resisted even this short respite of 
mercy, will, to-morrow, inexorably demand his prey." 

He then related to me, at my own request, — though 
every word was torture, — all the harrowing details of the 
proceeding before the Tribunal. " I have seen courage," 
said he, " in its noblest forms, in the field ; but the calm 
intrepidity with which that aged Hermit endured tor- 
ments — which it was hardly less torment to witness — sur- 
passed all that I could have conceived of human forti- 
tude ! " 

My poor Alethe, too, — in describing to me her con- 



THE EPICUREAN. 205 

duct, the brave man wept like a child. Overwhelmed, 
he said, at first by her apprehensions for my safety, she 
had given way to a full burst of womanly weakness. But 
no sooner was she brought before the Tribunal, and the 
declaration of her faith was demanded of her, than a spirit 
almost supernatural seemed to animate her whole form, 
" She raised her eyes," said he, " calmly, but with fervour, 
to heaven, while a blush was the only sign of mortal feel- 
ing on her features ; — and the clear, sweet, and untrem- 
bling voice, with which she pronounced her own doom, 
in the words, ' I am a Christian !' sent a thrill of admira- 
tion and pity throughout the multitude. Her youth, her 
loveliness, affected all hearts, and a cry of i Save the young 
maiden ! ' was heard in all directions." 

The implacable Orcus, however, would not hear of 
mercy. Resenting, as it appeared, with all his deadliest 
rancour, not only her own escape from his toils, but the 
aid with which she had, so fatally to his views, assisted 
mine, he demanded loudly and in the name of the insulted 
sanctuary of Isis, her instant death. It was but by the 
firm intervention of the Governor, who shared the gene- 
ral sympathy in her fate, that the delay of another day 
was granted to give a chance to the young maiden of yet 
recalling her confession, and thus affording some pretext 
for saving her. N 

Even in yielding, with evident reluctance, to this res- 
pite, the inhuman Priest would yet accompany it with 



206 THE EPICUREAN. 

some mark of his vengeance. Whether for the pleasure 
(observed the Tribune) of mingling mockery with his 
cruelty, or as a warning to her of the doom she must ulti- 
mately expect, he gave orders that there should be tied 
round her brow one of those chaplets of coral * with 
which it is the custom of young Christian maidens to 
array themselves on the day of their martyrdom ; — " and, 
thus fearfully adorned," said he, " she was led away, 
amidst the gaze of the pitying multitude, to prison." 

With these harrowing details the short interval till 
nightfall, — every minute of which seemed an age, — was 
occupied. As soon as it grew dark, I was placed upon 
a litter, — my wound, though not dangerous, requiring 
such a conveyance, — and, under the guidance of my friend, 
I was conducted to the prison. Through his interest with 
the guard, we were without difficulty admitted, and I was 
borne into the chamber where the maiden lay immured. 
Even the veteran guardian of the place seemed touched 
with compassion for his prisoner, and supposing her to be 
asleep, had the litter placed gently near her. 

She was half reclining, with her face hid in her hands, 
upon a couch, — at the foot of which stood an idol, over 
whose hideous features a lamp of naphtha that hung from 
the ceiling, shed a wild and ghastly glare. On a table 



* Une "de ces couronnes de grain de corail, dont les vierges mar- 
tyres ornoient leurs cheveux en allant a la mort." Les Martyrs. 



THE EPICUREAN. 207 

before the image stood a censer, with a small vessel of 
incense beside it, — one grain of which, thrown voluntarily 
into the flame, would, even now, save that precious life. 
So strange, so fearful was the whole scene, that I almost 
doubted its reality. Alethe ! my own, happy Alethe ! can 
it, I thought, be thou that I look upon ? 

She now, slowly, and with difficulty, raised her head 
from the couch, on observing which, the kind Tribune 
withdrew, and we were left alone. There was a paleness, 
as of death, over her features ; and those eyes, which 
when last I saw them, were but too bright, too happy for 
this world, looked dim and sunken. In raising herself 
up, she put her hand, as if from pain, to her forehead, 
whose marble hue but appeared more death-like from 
those red bands that lay so awfully across it. 

After wandering vaguely for a minute, her eyes rested 
upon me, — and, with a shriek, half terror, half joy, she 
sprung from the couch, and sunk upon her knees by my 
side. She had believed me dead ; and, even now, scarcely 
trusted her senses. " My husband ! my love ! " she ex- 
claimed ; " oh, if thou comest to call me from this world, 
behold I am ready!" In saying thus, she pointed wildly 
to that ominous wreath, and then dropped her head down 
upon my knee, as if an arrow had pierced it. 

H Alethe !" I cried, — terrified to the very soul by that 
mysterious pang, — and, as if the sound of my voice had 
reanimated her, she looked up, with a faint smile, in my face. 



208 THE EPICUREAN. 

Her thoughts, which had evidently been wandering, be- 
came collected; and in her joy at my safety, her sorrow 
at my suffering, she forgot entirely the fate that impended 
over herself. Love, innocent love, alone occupied all her 
thoughts; and the warmth, the affection, the devoted- 
ness, with which she spoke, — how, at any other moment, 
I would have blessed, have lingered upon every word ! 

But the time flew fast — that dreadful morrow was ap- 
proaching. Already I saw her writhing in the hands of 
the torturer, — the flames, the racks, the wheels were be- 
fore my eyes ! Half frantic with the fear that her resolu- 
tion was fixed, I flung myself from the litter in an agony 
of weeping, and supplicated her, by the love she bore me, 
by the happiness that awaited us, by her own merciful 
God, who was too good to require such a sacrifice — by all 
that the most passionate anxiety could dictate, I implored 
that she would avert from us the doom that was coming, 
and — but for once — comply with the vain ceremony de- 
manded of her. 

Shrinking from me, as I spoke, — but with a look more 
of sorrow than reproach, — " What, thou, too!" she said 
mournfully, — " thou, into whose spirit I had fondly hoped 
the same light had entered as into my own ! No, never 
be thou leagued with them who would tempt me to 
' make shipwreck of my faith 1 ' Thou, who couldst alone 
bind me to life, use not, I entreat thee, thy power ; but 
let me die, as He I serve hath commanded, — die for the 



THE EPICUREAN. 209 

Truth. Remember the holy lessons we heard together 
on those nights, those happy nights, when both the pre- 
sent and future smiled upon us — when even the gift of 
eternal life came more welcome to my soul, from the 
blessed conviction that thou wert to be a sharer in it ; — 
shall I forfeit now that divine privilege? shall I deny 
the true God, whom we then learned to love ? 

" No, my own betrothed," she continued, — pointing to 
the two rings on her finger, — " behold these pledges, — 
they are both sacred. I should have been as true to thee 
as I am now to heaven, — nor in that life to which I am 
hastening shall our love be forgotten. Should the bap- 
tism of fire, through which I shall pass to-morrow, make 
me worthy to be heard before the throne of Grace, I will 
intercede for thy soul — I will pray that it may yet share 
with mine that ' inheritance, immortal and undefiled,' 
which Mercy offers, and that thou, — and my dear mother, 

-and I " 

She here dropped her voice ; the momentary anima- 
tion, with which devotion and affection had inspired her, 
vanished ; — and there came a darkness over all her fea- 
tures, a livid darkness, — like the approach of death, — that 
made me shudder through every limb. Seizing my hand 
convulsively, and looking at me with a fearful eagerness, 
as if anxious to hear some consoling assurance from my 
own lips, — " Believe me," she continued, " not all the tor- 
ments they are preparing for me, — not even this deep, 
p 



210 THE EPICUREAN. 

burning pain in my brow, to which they will hardly find 
an equal, — could be half so dreadful to me, as the thought 
that I leave thee, without " 

Here, her voice again failed; her head sunk upon my 
arm, and — merciful God, let me forget what I then felt, — 
I saw that she was dying ! Whether I uttered any cry, 
I know not ; — but the Tribune came rushing into my 
chamber, and, looking on the maiden, said, with a face 
full of horror, " It is but too true !" 

He then told me in a low voice, what he had just 
learned from the guardian of the prison, that the band 
round the young Christian's brow was — oh, horrible 
cruelty! — a compound of the most deadly poison, — the 
hellish invention of Orcus, to satiate his vengeance, and 
make the fate of his poor victim secure. My first move- 
ment was to untie that fatal wreath, — but it would not 
come away — it would not come away ! 

Roused by the pain, she again looked in my face ; but, 
unable to speak, took hastily from her bosom the small 
silver cross which she had brought with her from my cave. 
Having pressed it to her own lips, she held it anxiously to 
mine, and seeing me kiss the holy symbol with fervour, 
looked happy, and smiled. The agony of death seemed 
to have passed away; — there came suddenly over her fea- 
tures a heavenly light, some share of which I felt descend- 
ing into my own soul, and, in a few minutes more, she 
expired in my arms. 



THE EPICUREAN. 211 



Here ends the Manuscript ; but, on the outer cover there is, 
in the handwriting of a much later period, the following 
Notice, extracted, as it appears, from some Egyptian 
martyrology : — 

" Alciphron, — an Epicurean philosopher, converted to 
Christianity a.d. 257, by a young Egyptian maiden, who 
suffered martyrdom in that year. Immediately upon her 
death he betook himself to the desert, and lived a life, it 
is said, of much holiness and penitence. During the per- 
secution under Dioclesian, his sufferings for the faith were 
most exemplary ; and being at length, at an advanced 
age, condemned to hard labour, for refusing to comply 
with an Imperial edict, he died at the Brass Mines of 
Palestine, a.d. 297.— 

" As Alciphron held the opinions maintained since by 
Arius, his memory has not been spared by Athanasian 
writers, who, among other charges, accuse him of having 
been addicted to the superstitions of Egypt. For this 
calumny, however, there appears to be no better founda- 
p 2 



212 THE EPICUREAN. 

tion than a circumstance, recorded by one of his brother 
monks, that there was found, after his death, a small 
metal mirror, like those used in the ceremonies of Isis, 
suspended around his neck." 



NOTES. 



Page 11. — For the importance attached to dreams by the 
ancients, see Jortin, Remarks on Ecclesiastical History, vol. i. 
p. 90. 

Page 16. — " The Pillar of Pillars" — more properly, perhaps, 
" the Column of the Pillars," v. Abdallatif, Relation de 
l'Egypte, and the notes of M. de Sacy. The great portico 
round this column (formerly designated Pompey's, but now 
known to have been erected in honour of Dioclesian) was 
still standing, M. de Sacy says, in the time of Saladin. v. 
Lord Valentias Travels. 

Page 17. — Ammianus thus speaks of the state of Alexandria 
in his time, which was, I believe, as late as the end of the 
fourth century ; — " Ne nunc quidem in eadem urbe Doctrinse 
variae silent, non apud nos exaruit Musica nee Harmonia con- 
ticuit." Lib. 22. 

Page 18. — From the character of the features of the Sphinx, 
and a passage in Herodotus, describing the Egyptians as 
fAeXayxpoes /cat ovXoTpaces, Volney, Bruce, and a few others, 
have concluded that the ancient inhabitants of Egypt were 
negroes. But this opinion is contradicted by a host of autho- 



\ 



214 NOTES. 

rities. See Casteras notes upon Browne's Travels, for the result 
of Blumenbach's dissection of a variety of mummies. Denon, 
speaking of the character of the heads represented in the an- 
cient sculpture and painting of Egypt says, " Celle des femmes 
ressemble encore a la figure des jolies femmes d'aujourd'hui: 
de la rondeur, de la volupte, le nez petit, les yeux longs, peu 
ouverts," &c. &c. He could judge, too, he says, from the 
female mummies, " que leurs cheveux 6toient longs et lisses, 
que le caractere de t&te de la plupart tenoit du beau style." — 
" Je rapportai, " he adds, ' une tete de vieille femme qui etoit 
aussi belle que celles de Michel- Ange, et leur resembloit 
beaucoup." 

In a Description gSnirale de Thebes" by Messrs, Jollois et Des- 
villiers, they say, " Toutes les sculptures Egyptiennes, depuis 
les plus grands colosses de Thebes jusqu'aux plus petites idoles, 
ne rappellent en aucune maniere les traits de la figure des 
negres ; outre que les tetes momies des catacombes de Thebes 
presentent des profils droits.'* See also M. Jomard's " De- 
scription of Syene and the Cataracts, " Baron Larrey, on the 
" conformation physique" of the Egyptians, &c. But the 
most satisfactory refutation of the opinion of Volney has been 
afforded within these few years, by Doctor Granville, who hav- 
ing been lucky enough to obtain possession of a perfect female 
mummy, has, by the dissection and admeasurement of its 
form, completely established the fact, that the ancient Egyp- 
tians were of the Caucasian race, not of the Ethiopian. See 
this gentleman's curious " Essay on Egyptian Mummies," read 
before the Royal Society, April 14, 1825. 

De Pauw, the great depredator of every thing Egyptian, 
has on the authority of a passage in iElian, presumed to affix 
to the countrywomen of Cleopatra the stigma of complete and 
unredeemed ugliness. The following line of Euripides, how- 
ever, is an answer to such charges : — 

Nttkou ptv ttfit KaWitfapfaw poau 



NOTES. 215 

In addition to the celebrated instances of Cleopatra, Rhodope, 
&c. we are told, on the authority of Manetho (as given by 
Zoega from Georgius Syncellus), of a beautiful queen of 
Memphis, Nitocris, of the sixth dynasty, who in addition to 
other charms and perfections, was (rather inconsistently with 
the negro hypothesis) ZavQrj rrjv xpoicw/. 

See, for a tribute to the beauty of the Egyptian women, 
Montesquieu's Temple de Gnide. 

Page 24. — " Among beds of lotus-flowers" — v. Strabo. 

Page 25. — " Read those sublime words on the Temple of Ne'itha." 
— To d 6v *2au rtjs A0wvai$, rjv tcoct ltrtv vo^i^ov(nv } l$o$, z^nypaip^v 
6%u T0ia,vr7}V) Eyco upi orav to yiyovos, xtu ov xoti Ecro/uivov, 
scat rov ifAovrtiirXov ovhus tfca atfzzu'ku^zv. Plutarch de Isid, et 
Osir, 

lb. — " Wandered among the prostrate obelisks of Heliopolis." — 
De-la, en remontant toujours le Nil, on trouve a deux cent 
cinquante pas, ou environ de la Mataree, les traces de l'ancienne 
Heliopolis, ou Ville de Soleil, a qui ce lieu etoit particuliere- 
ment consacre. C'est pour cette raison qu'on Tappelloit en- 
core l'CEil, ou la Fontaine du Soleil. Maillet. 

lb. — " Isle of the Golden Venus" — " On trouve une ile 
appelee Venus-Doree, ou le champ d'or, avant de remonter 
jusqu'a Memphis." Voyages de Pythagore, 

Page 27. — For an account of the Table of Emerald, v. Let- 
tres sur VOrigine des Dieux d'Egypte. De Pauw supposes it to 
be a modern fiction of the Arabs. Many writers have fancied 
that the art of making gold was the great secret that lay hid 
under the forms of Egyptian theology. " La science Her- 
metique," says the Benedictine, Pernetz, " Tart sacerdotal, £toit 
la source de toutes les richesses des Rois d'Egypte, et Tobjet 



216 NOTES. 

de ces mysteres si caches sous le voile de leur pretendue Reli- 
gion." Fables Egyptiennes. The hieroglyphs, that formerly 
covered the Pyramids, are supposed by some of these writers 
to relate to the same art. See Mutus Liber, Rupelke. 

Page 28. — " By reflecting the sun's rays," says Clarke, 
speaking of the Pyramids, " they appeared white as snow." 

Page 29. — For Bubastis, the Diana of the Egyptians, v. 
Jablonski, lib. 3. cap. 4. 

Page 31. — " The light coracle" fyc. — v. Amailhon, " Histoire 
de la Navigation el du Commerce des Egyptiens sous les Ptolemfr.s" 
See also, for a description of the various kinds of boats used 
on the Nile, Maillet t torn, i. p. 98. 

Page 31. — v. Maurice, Appendix to " Ruins of Babylon." 
Another reason, he says, for their worship of the Ibis, " founded 
on their love of geometry, was (according to Plutarch) that 
the space between its legs, when parted asunder, as it walks, 
together with its beak, forms a complete equilateral triangle." 
From the examination of the embalmed birds, found in the 
Catacombs of Saccara, there seems to be no doubt that the 
Ibis was the same kind of bird as that described by Bruce, 
under the Arabian name of Abou Hannes. 

Page 32. — " The golden blossoms of the bean -flower.'* — La 
ileur en est mille fois plus odoriferante que 4 " celles de nos 
feves d'Europe, quoique leur parfum nous paroisse si agreable. 
Comme on en seme beaucoup dans les terres voisines. du 
Caire, du cote de l'occident, c'est quelque chose de charmant 
que l'air embaume* que Ton respire le soir sur les terrasses, 
quand le vent de l'ouest vient a souffler, et y apporte cette 
odeur admirable." Maillet, 



NOTES. 217 

lb. — "A Sistrum," fyc. — " Isis est genius," says Servius, 
'• jEgypti, qui per sistri motum, quod gerit in dextra, Nili 
accessus recessusque significat." 

Page 34. — " The ivy that encircled it" fyc. — The ivy was con- 
secrated to Osiris, v. Diodor. Sic, 1. 10. 

lb. — " The small mirror" — " Quelques uues," says Dupuis, 
describing the processions of lsis, " portoient des miroirs 
attaches a leurs epaules, afm de multiplier et de porter dans 
tous les sens les images de la Deesse." Origine des Cultus, torn, 
viii. p. 847. A mirror, it appears, was also one of the em- 
blems in the mysteries of Bacchus. 

Page 35, — " There lies, to the north of Memphis ," §c. — " Tout 
prouve que la territoire de Sakkarah etoit la Necropolis au 
sud de Memphis, et le faubourg oppose a celui-ci, ou sont les 
pyramides de Gizeh, une autre Ville des Morts, qui terminoit 
Memphis au nord." Denon. 

There is nothing known with certainty as to the site of 
Memphis, but it will be perceived that the description of its 
position given by the Epicurean corresponds, in almost every 
particular, with that which M. Maillet (the French consul, for 
many years, at Cairo) has, in his work on Egypt, left us. It 
must be always borne in mind, too, that of the distances be- 
tween the respective places here mentioned, we have no longer 
any accurate means of judging. 

lb. — " Looking out with the same face and features," — 
" Par-la non seulement on conservoit les corps d'une famille 
entiere, mais en descendant dans ces lieux souterreins, ou ils 
etoient d£pos£s, on pouvoit se representer en un instant tous 
ses ancetres depuis plusieurs milliers d'annees, tels a-peu-pres 
qu'ils etoient de leur vivant." Maillet. 



218 



NOTES. 



Page 36. — " Pyramid beyond Pyramid" — " Multas olim 
pyramidas fuisse e minis arguitur." Zoega. — Vansleb, who 
visited more than ten of the small pyramids, is of opinion that 
there must have originally been a hundred in this place. 

See, on the subject of the lake to the northward of Memphis, 
Shaw's Travels, p. 302. 

Page 41. — " The Theban beetle." — " On voit en Egypte, apres 
la retraite du Nil et la fecondation des terres, le limon couvert 
d'une multitude de scarabees. Un pareil phenomene a du 
sembler aux Egyptiens le plus propre a peindre une nouvelle 
existence." M. Jomard. — Partly for the same reason, and 
partly for another, still more fanciful, the early Christians 
used to apply this emblem to Christ. " Bonus ille scarabseus 
meus," says St. Augustine, " non ea tantum de causa quod 
unigenitus, quod ipsemet sui auctor mortalium speciem in- 
duerit, sed quod in hac nostra fsece sese volutaverit et ex hac 
ipsa nasci voluerit." 

lb. — '* Enshrined within a case of crystal" — u Les Egyp- 
tiens ont fait aussi, pour conserver leurs morts, des caisses 
de verre." De Pauw. — He mentions, also, in another place, 
a sort of transparent substance, which the Ethiopians used 
for the same purpose, and which was frequently mistaken 
by the Greeks for glass. 

lb. — " Among the emblems of death ."*-?" Un pretre, qui 
brise la tige d'une fleur, des oiseaux qui s'envolent, sont les 
emblemes de la mort et de Tame qui se separe du corps." 
Denon. 

Theseus employs the same image in the Phaedra : — 

Opvig yap us ri$ zjc x i i u)> xtywros u 
II zdvp is ahov tfix^ov o^fAfia-aca pot. 



NOTES. 



219 



Page 42. — " The singular appearance of a Cross so fre- 
quently recurring among the hieroglyphics of Egypt, had ex~ 
cited the curiosity of the Christians at a very early period of 
ecclesiastical history ; and as some of the Priests, who were 
acquainted with the meaning of the hieroglyphics, became 
converted to Christianity, the secret transpired. ' The con- 
verted heathens/ says Socrates Scholasticus, ' explained the 
symbol, and declared that it signified Life to Come.'" 
Clarke. 

Lipsius, therefore, is mistaken in supposing the Cross to 
have been an emblem peculiar to the Christians. See, on this 
subject, L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. 6. c. 16. 

It is singular enough that while the Cross was thus held 
sacred among the Egyptians, not only the custom of marking 
the forehead with the sign of the Cross, but Baptism and the 
consecration of the bread in the Eucharist were imitated in 
the mysterious ceremonies of Mithra. Tertull. de Proscriptione 
Hereticorum. 

Zoega is of opinion that the Cross, said to have been for the 
first time found, on the destruction of the temple of Serapis, 
by the Christians, could not have been the crux ansata ; as 
nothing is more common than this emblem on all the Egyptian 
monuments. 

Page 44. — " Stood shadowless." — It was an idea entertained 
among the ancients that the Pyramids were so constructed 
(" mecanicEi constructione," says Ammianus Marcellimis) as 
never to cast any shadow. 

Page 45. — " Rhodope" — From the story of Rhodope, Zoega 
thinks, " videntur Arabes ansam arripuisse ut in una ex pyra- 
midibus, genii loco, habitare dicerent mulierem nudam insignis 
pulchritudinis quag aspecto suo homines insanire faciat." De 
Usu Obeliscorum. See also L'Egypte de Murtadi par Vattier. 



220 NOTES. 

Page 46.—" The Gates of Oblivion" — " Apud Meraphim 
aeneas quasdam portas, quae Lethes et Cocyti (hoc est obli- 
vionis et lamentationis) appellantur aperiri, gravem asperum- 
que edentes sonum." Zoega. 

Page 49. — " A file of lifeless bodies" — See, for the custom of 
burying the dead upright (" post funus stantia busto corpora," 
as Statius describes it), Dr. Clarke's preface to the 2d section 
of his fifth volume. They used to insert precious stones in 
the place of the eyes. " Les yeux etoient formes d'emeraudes, 
de turquoises," &c. — v. Masoudy, quoted by Quatremere. 

Page 51. — " The din with which the gates clashed together," 
— The following verses of Claudian are supposed to have 
been meant as a description of those imitations of the noise 
of earthquake and thunder which, by means of the Ce- 
raunoscope, and other such contrivances, were practised in 
the shows of the Mysteries : — 

Jam mihi cernuntur trepidis delubra moveri 
Sedibus, et claram dispergere culmina lucem, 
Adventum testata Dei. Jam magnus ab imis 
Auditur fremitus terris, templumque remugit 
Cecropium. Rapt, Prcserp, lib. 1. 

lb. — " It seemed as if every echo." — See, for the echoes in the 
pyramids, Plutarch, de Placitis Philosoph, 

Page 53. — " Pale phantom-like shapes." — " Ce moment heu- 
reux (de l'Autopsie) etoit prepare par des scenes effrayantes, 
par des alternatives de crainte et de joie, de lumiere et de 
tenebres, par la lueur des eclairs, par le bruit terrible de la 
foudre, qu'on imitoit, et par des apparitions de spectres, des 
illusions magiques, qui frappoient les yeux et les oreilles tout 
ensemble." Dupuis, 



NOTES. 221 

Page 55. — "Serpents of fire ." — " Ces considerations me 
portent a penser que, dans les mysteres, ces phenomenes etoient 
beaucoup mieux executees, et sans comparaison plus terribles 
a l'aide de quelque composition pyrique qui est restee cachee, 
comme celle du feu Gr^geois." De Pauw. 

lb. — " The burning of the reed-beds of Ethiopia." — '■ II 
n'y a point d'autre moyen que de porter le feu dans ces forets 
de roseaux, qui repandent alors dans tout le pais une lumiere 
aussi considerable que celle du jour merae." Maillet, torn. 1. 
p. 63. 

Page 56. — " The sound of torrents" — The Nile, Pliny tells us, 
was admitted into the Pyramid. 

Page 57. — "I had given myself up." — "On exercoit," 
says Dupuis, " les recipiendaires, pendant plusieurs jours, a 
traverser, a la nage, une grande etendue d'eau. On les y 
jettoit et ce n'etoit qu'avec peine qu'ils s'en retiroient. On 
appliquoit le fer et le feu sur leurs membres. On les faisoit 
passer a travers les flammes." 

The aspirants were often in considerable danger, and Pytha- 
goras, we are told, nearly lost his life in the trials, v. Re- 
cherches sur les Initiations, par Robin. 

Page 62.—*' The God of Silence and Light."—" Enfin Har~ 
pocrates repr^sentoit aussi le Soleii. II est vrai que c'etoit 
aussi le Dieu du Silence ; il mettoit le doigt sur la bouche 
parcequ'on adoroit le Soleii avec un respectueux silence ; 
et c'est de la qu'est venu le Sige* des Basiiidiens, qui tiroient 

leur origine de l'Europe Enfin Harpocrates etoit 

assis sur le lotus, qui est la plante du Soleii." Hist. desJuifs. 

Page 63. —For the two cups used in the mysteries, see 
L'Histoire des Juifs t liv. 9. c. 16. 



222 



NOTES. 



Page 63. — " Osiris." — Osiris, under the name of Serapis, 
was supposed to rule over the subterranean world ; and per- 
formed the office of Pluto, in the mythology of the Egyptians. 
" They believed," says Dr. Pritchard, " that Serapis presided 
over the region of departed souls, during the period of their 
absence, when languishing without bodies, and that the dead 
were deposited in his palace." Analysis of the Egyptian Mytho- 
logy- 
lb, — " To cool the lips of the dead" — " Frigidam illam aquam 
post mortem, tanquam Hebes poculum, expetitam. ,, Zoega. — 
The Lethe of the Egyptians was called Ameles. See Dupuis, 
torn. 8. p. 651. 

Page 64. — " The young cap -bearer on the other side" — 
" Enfin on disoit qu'il y avoit deux coupes, Tune en haut et 
l'autre en bas. Celui qui beuvoit de la coupe d'en bas, avoit 
toujours soif, ses desirs s'augmentoit au lieu de s'eteindre, 
mais celui qui beuvoit de la coupe en haut etoit rempli et con- 
tent. Cette premiere coupe etoit la connoissance de la nature, 
qui ne satisfait jamais pleinement ceux qui en sordent les 
mysteres ; et la seconde coupe, dans laquelle on devoit boire 
pour n'avoir jamais soif, etoit la connaissance des mysteres 
du Ciel." Hist, des Juifs, liv. 9. chap. 16. 

Page 66. — " Grasshopper symbol of Initiation." — Hor. Apoll. — 
The grasshopper was also consecrated to the sun as being 
musical. 

lb. — " Isle of Gardens." — The isle Antirrhodus, near 
Alexandria. Maillet. 

lb. — " Vineyard at Anthylla." — v. Athen. Deipnos. 

Page 68. — " We can see those stars" — <( On voyoit en plein 



NOTES. 223 

jour par ces ouvertures les etoiles, et meme quelques planetes 
en leur plus grande latitude septentrionale ; et les pretres 
avoient bient6t profite de ce phenomene, pour observer a di- 
verses heures la passage des etoiles." Stthos. — Strabo mentions 
certain caves or pits, constructed for the purpose of astrono- 
mical observations, which lay in the Zelopolitan prefecture, 
beyond Heliopoiis. 

Page 69. — " That dark Deity." — Serapis, Sol Inferus. — Athe- 
nodorus, scriptor vetustus, apud Clernentem Alexandrinum 
in Protreptico, ait " simulacra Serapidis conspicue esse colore 
cceruleo et nigricante." Macrobius, in verbis descriptis, § 6. 
Docet. nos apud iEgyptios " simulacra solis infera fingi colore 
cceruleo." Jablonsku 

lb. — " A plantain. " — This tree was dedicated to the 
Genii of the Shades, from its being an emblem of repose and 
cooling airs. " Cui imminet musse folium, quod ab Iside 
infera geniisque ei addictis manu geri solitum, umbram re- 
quiemque et auras frigidas subindigitare videtur." Zoega. 

Page 75. — " He spoke of the pre-existence of the soul." 8fc. — 
For a full account of the doctrines which are here represented 
as having been taught to the initiated in the Egyptian mys- 
teries, the reader may consult Dupuis, Pritchard's Analysis of 
the Egyptian Mythology, &c. &c. " L'on de'couvroit Torigine 
de Tame, sa chute sur la terre, a travers les spheres et les ele- 
mens, et son retour au lieu de son origine .... c'etoit ici la 
partie la plus metaphysique, et que ne pourroit guere entendre 
le commun des Inities, mais dont on lui donnoit le spectacle 
par des figures et des spectres allegoriques." Dupuis. 

Page 76. — " Those fields of radiance." — See Beausobre, lib. 3. 
c. 4, for the " terre bienheureuse et lumine^c," which the 
Manicheans supposed God to inhabit. Plato, too, speaks (in 



224 



NOTES. 



Phaed.) of a pure land lying in the pure sky (rr,v yw xufaguv zv 
xuticigsy KZKr&ou ovgc&vto), the abode of divinity, of innocence, and 
of life." 

Page 76. — " As he spoke these words, a burst of pure, brilliant 
light." — The power of producing a sudden and dazzling 
effusion of light, which was one of the arts employed by the 
contrivers of the ancient Mysteries, is thus described in a few 
words by Apuleius, who was himself admitted to witness the 
Isiac ceremonies at Corinth: — " Nocte media vidi solem can- 
dido coruscantem lumine." 

Page 77. — " Tracing it from the first moment of earthward 
desire." — In the original construction of this work, there was 
an episode introduced here (which I have since published in 
another form), illustrating the doctrine of the fall of the soul 
by the Oriental fable of the Loves of the Angels. 

Page 78. — " Restoring her lost wings." — Damascius, in his 
Life of Isidorus, says, " Ex antiquissimis Philosophis Pytha- 
goram et Platonem Isidorus ut Deos coluit, et eorum animas 
alatas esse dixit quas in locum supercoelestem inque campum 
veritatis et pratum elevatas, divinis putavit ideis pasci." 
Apud Phot. Bibliothec. 

Page 79. — " A pale moonlike meteor." — Apuleius, in describ- 
ing the miraculous appearances exhibited in the mysteries, 
says, " Nocte media vidi solem candido coruscantem luinine." 
Metamorphos. lib. 11. 

lb. — " So entirely did the illusion of the scene," 8fc. — In trac- 
ing the early connexion of spectacles with the ceremonies 
of religion, Voltaire says, " II y a bien plus ; les veritables 
grandes tragedies, les representations imposantes et terribles, 
etoient les mysteres sacres, qu'on celebroit dans les plus vastes 



NOTES. 225 

temples du monde, en presence des seuls Inities; c'etoit la 
que les habits, les decorations, les machines etoient propres au 
sujet ; et le sujet eHoit la vie pr^sente et la vie future." Des 
divers changemens arrives a Vart tragique. 

To these scenic representations in the Egyptian mysteries, 
there is evidently an allusion in the vision of Ezekiel, where 
the Spirit shows him the abominations which the Israelites 
learned in Egypt: — " Then said he unto me, ' Son of man' 
hast thou seen what the ancients of the house of Israel do in 
the dark, every man in the chambers of his imagery ? ' " Chap. 8. 

Page 64. — " She mingled a draught divine"— The rm aOavu,- 
civ? (pccgpKzov, which, according to Diodorus Siculus, Isis pre- 
pared for her son Orus. — Lib. 1. 

Page 82. — " The Seven Tables of stone.'' — " Bernard, Comte 
de la Marche Trevisane, instruit par la lecture des livres 
anciens, dit, qu' Hermes trouva sept tables dans la vallee 
d'Hebron, sur lesquelles etoient graves les principes des arts 
liberaux." Fables Egyptiennes. See Jablonski de stelis Herm. 

Page 83. — " Beside the goat of Mendes" — For an account 
of the animal worship of the Egyptians, see De Pauw, torn. 2. 

lb. — " The crocodile with costly gems" — Herodotus (Euterp.) 
tells us that the people about Thebes and Lake Moeris, kept 
a number of tame crocodiles, which they worshipped, and 
dressed them out with gems and golden ornaments in their 
ears. 

lb. — " The I siac serpents." — " On auguroit bien de serpens 
Isiaques, lorsqu'ils goutoient l'offrande et se trainoient lente- 
ment autour de l'autel." De Pauw. 

Page 84. — " Hence, the festivals and hymns," fyc. — For an 
Q 



226 NOTES. 

account of the various festivals at the different periods of the 
sun's progress, in the spring, and in the autumn, see Dupuis 
and Pritchard. 

Page 84. — " The Mysteries of the Night." — v. Athenag. Leg. 
pro Christ, p. 138. 

Page 87. — " A peal like that of thunder" — See, for some 
curious remarks on the mode of imitating thunder and light- 
ning in the ancient mysteries, De Paaw, torn. 1. p. 323. The 
machine with which these effects were produced on the stage 
was called a ceraunoscope. 

Page 91. — " Windings capriciously intricate." — In addition 
to the accounts which the ancients have left us of the prodi- 
gious excavations in all parts of Egypt, — the fifteen hundred 
chambers under the labyrinth — the subterranean stables of 
the Thebaid, containing a thousand horses — the crypts of 
Upper Egypt passing under the bed of the Nile, &c. &c. — the 
stories and traditions current among the Arabs still preserve 
the memory of those wonderful substructions. " Un Arabe/' 
says Paul Lucas, " qui etoit avec nous, m'assura qu'etant 
entre autrefois dans le Labyrinthe, il avoit inarche dans les 
chambres souterraines jusqu'en un lieu ou il y avoit une 
grande place environnee de plusieurs niches qui ressembloit a 
de petites boutiques, d'ou Ton entroit dans d'autres allees et 
dans chambres, sans pouvoir en trouver la fin." In speaking, 
too, of the arcades along the Nile, near Cosseir, " lis me dirent 
m£me que ces souterrains etoient si profondes qu'il y en 
avoient qui alloient a trois journees de la, et qu'iJs conduisoient 
dans un pays ou Ton voyoit de beau jardins, qu'on y trouvoit 
de belles maisons," &c. &c. 

See also mM.Quatremere*s Memoires sur I'Egypte, tom.l.p.142, 
an account of a subterranean reservoir, said to have been dis- 
covered at Kai's, and of the expedition undertaken by a party 



NOTES. 227 

of persons, in a long narrow boat, for the purpose of explor- 
ing it. " Leur voyage avoit ete de six jours, dont les quatre 
premiers furent employes a penetrer les bords ; les deux 
autres a revenir au lieu d'ou ils etoient partis. Pendant tout 
cet intervalle ils ne purent atteindre l'extremite du bassin. 
L'emir Ala-eddin-Tamboga, gouverneur de Behnesa, ecrivit 
ces details au sultan, qui en fut extremement surpris." 

Page 94. — " The small island in the centre of 'Lake Mceris." — 
The position here given to Lake Mceris, in making it the im- 
mediate boundary of the city of Memphis to the south, cor- 
responds exactly with the site assigned to it by Maillet : — 
" Memphis avoit encore a son midi un vaste reservoir, par ou 
tout ce qui peut servir a la commodite et a Tagrement de la 
vie lui etoit voiture abondamment de toutes les parties de 
l'Egypte. Ce lac qui la terminoit de ce c6teMa," &c. &c. 
Tom. 2. p. 7. 

lb. — " Ruins rising blackly above the wave ." — " On voit sur la 
rive orientale des antiquites qui sont presque entierement sous 
les eaux." Belzoni. 

Page 95. — " Its thundering portals." — " Quorundam autem 
domorum (in Labyrintho) talis est situs, ut adaperientibus 
fores tonitruum intus terribile existat." Pliny. 

lb. — " Leaves that serve as cups. " — Strabo. According 
to the French translator of Strabo, it was the the fruit of 
the faba Mgyptiaca, not the leaf, that was used for this pur- 
pose. " Le Kifiiopiov," he says, " devoit s'entendre de la cap- 
sule ou fruit de cette plante, dont les Egyptiens se servoient 
comme d'un vase, imaginant que l'eau du Nil y devenoit deli- 
cieuse." 

Page 98.— " The fish of these waters," &fc.—Mian, lib. 6. 32 # 



228 notes. 

Page 99. — " Pleasure-boats or yachts" — Called Thalameges, 
from the pavilion on the deck. v. Strabo. 

Page 100. — " Covered with beds of those pale, sweet roses." — 
As April is the season for gathering these roses (see Malte- 
Brun's Economical Calendar ) 9 the Epicurean could not, of 
course, mean to say that he saw them actually in flower. 

Page 101. — " The lizards upon the bank." — " L'or et l'azur 
brillent en bandes longitudinales sur leur corps entier, et leur 
queue est du plus beau bleu celeste." Sonnini. 

Page 102. — " The canal through which we now sailed" — " Un 
Canal," says Maillet, (t tres profond et tres large y voituroit 
les eaux du Nil." 

Page 104. — " For a draught of whose flood" fyc. — " Ancienne- 
ment on portoit les eaux du Nil jusqu'a des contrees fort 
eloignees, et surtout chez les princesses du sang des Ptolo- 
mees, mariees dans des families etrangeres." De Pauw. 

The water thus conveyed to other lands was, as we may 
collect from Juvenal, chiefly intended for the use of the 
Temples of Isis, established in those countries. 

Si Candida jusserit Io, 
Ibit ad ^Egypti finem, calidaque petitas 
A Meroe portabit aquas, ut spargat in sedem 
Isidis, antiquo quae proxima surgit ovili. 

Sat. vi. 

Page 107. — " Bearing each the name of its owner" — " Le nom 
du maitre y etoit ecrit, pendant la nuit, en lettres de feu." 
Maillet. 



NOTES, 229 

Page 107. — " Cups of that frail crystal/* — called Alassontes. 
For their brittleness Martial is an authority : — 

Tolle, puer, calices, tepidique toreumata Nili, 
Et mihi secura pocula trade manu. 

" Sans parler ici des coupes d'un verre porte jusqu'a la 
purete du crystal, ni de celles qu'on appelloit Alassontes, et 
qu'on suppose avoir represented des figures dont les couleurs 
changeoient suivant l'aspect sous lequel on les regardoit, a peu 
pres comme ce qu'on nomme vulgairement Gorge de pigeon, 
&c" De Pauw. 

lb. — Bracelets of the black beans of Abyssinia." — The bean of 
the Glycyne, which is so beautiful as to be strung into neck- 
laces and bracelets, is generally known by the name of the 
black bean of Abyssinia. Niebuhr. 

Page 108. — " Sweet lotus-wood flute" — See M. Villoteau on 
the musical instruments of the Egyptians. 

lb. — " Shine like the brow of Mount Atlas at night." — Soli- 
nus speaks of the snowy summit of Mount Atlas glittering 
with flames at night. In the account of the Periplus of 
Hanno, as well as in that of Eudoxus, we read that as those 
navigators were coasting this part of Africa, torrents of light 
were seen to fall on the sea. 

Page 109. — " The tears of Isis." — " Per lacrymas, vero, 
Isidis intelligo effluvia qusedam Lunae, quibus tantam vim 
videntur tribuisse iEgypti." Jablonski. — He is of opinion that 
the superstition of the Nucta, or miraculous drop, is a relic of 
the veneration paid to the dews, as the tears of Isis. 

lb. — w The rustling of the acacias," 8fc. — Travels of Captain 
Mangles. 



230 NOTES. 

Page 110. — " Supposed to rest in the valley of the moon." — 
Plutarch. Dupuis, torn. 10. The Manicheans held the same 
belief. See Beausobre, p. 565. 

lb.—" Sothis, the fair star of the waters." — vdpaywyov is the 
epithet applied to this star by Plutarch de Isid. 

Page 111. — " Was its birth- star." — ~'H 2a>faw$ uvetroX'/i yinrius 
Kccrap^ouffcc <rtts us rov xoffftov, Porphyr. de Antro Nymph. 

Page 116. — il Golden Mountains." — v. Wilford on Egypt and 
the Nile, Asiatic Researches. 

lb. — " Sweet -smelling wood." — " A l'epoque de la crue le Nil 
Vert cbarie les planches d'un bois qui a une odeur semblable a 
celle de l'encens." Quatremere. 

lb. — " Barges full of bees.'* — Maillet. 

Page 117. — ft Such a profusion of the white flowers ," fyc. — u On 
les voit comme jadis cueiller dans les champs des tiges du 
lotus, signes du debordement et presages de Tabondance ; ils 
s'enveloppent les bras et le corps avec les longues tiges fleuries, 
et parcourent les rues," &c. Description desTombeaux des Rois, 
par M. Costaz. 

Page 120. — " While composing his Commentary on the Scrip- 
tures." — It was during the composition of his great critical 
work, the Hexapla, that Origen employed these female 
scribes. 

Page 122.—*' That rich tapestry," $c. 

Non ego prsetulerim Babylonica picta superbe 
Texta, Semiramia quae variantur acu. Martial. 



NOTES. 231 

Page 124. — u The duty of some of these young servitors.'* 
— De Pauw, who differs in opinion from those who sup- 
posed women to be eligible to the higher sacerdotal offices 
in Egypt, thus enumerates the tasks to which their super- 
intendence was, as he thinks, confined : — " Les femmes 
n'ont pu tout au plus dans Tordre secondaire, s'acquitter que 
de quelques emplois sans consequence ; comme de nourrir 
des scarabees, des musaraignes et d'autres petits animaux 
sacres." Tom. 1. Sect. 2. 

Page 137. — " The Place of Weeping." — v. Wilford, Asiatic 
Researches , vol. 3. p. 340. 

Page 145. — " We had long since left this mountain behind. 1 * — 
The voyages on the Nile are, under favourable circumstances, 
performed with considerable rapidity. " En cinq ou six 
jours," says Maillet, " on pourroit ais^ment remonter de 
1'embouchure du Nil a ses cataractes, ou descendre des cata- 
ractes jusqu'a la mer. " The great uncertainty of the navi- 
gation is proved by what Belzoni tells us : — " Nous ne mimes 
cette fois que deux jours et demi pour faire le trajet du Caire 
a Melawi, auquel, dans notre second voyage, nous avions em- 
ployes dix-huit jours." 

Page 146. — " Those mighty statues, that fling their shadows." — 
" Elles ont pres de vingt metres (61 pieds) d'elevation ; et au 
lever du soleil, leurs ombres immenses s'etendent au loin sur 
la chaine Libyenne." Description gtnerale de Thebes, par Messrs. 
Jollois et Desvilliers. 

lb. — is Those cool alcoves." — Paul Lucas. 

Page 151. — " Whose waters are half sweet, half bitter." — Paul 

Lucas. 



232 NOTES. 

Page 154. — " Mountain of the Birds." — Tehre has been much 
controversy among the Arabian writers, with respect to the 
site of this mountain, for which see Quatremere, torn. 1. art. 
Amoun. 

Page 158. — " The hand of labour had succeeded" 8rc, — The 
monks of Mount Sinai (Shaw says) have covered over near 
four acres of the naked rocks with fruitful gardens and or- 
chards* 

Page 160. — " The image of a head" — There was usually, 
Tertullian tells us, the image of Christ on the communion- 
cups. 

lb. — " Kissed her forehead" — " We are rather disposed to 
infer," says the present Bishop of Lincoln, in his very sensible 
work on Tertullian, " that, at the conclusion of all their 
meetings for the purpose of devotion, the early Christians 
were accustomed to give the kiss of peace, in token of the 
brotherly love subsisting between them." 

Page 162. — " Come thus secretly before daybreak," — It was 
among the accusations of Celsus against the Christians, that 
they held their assemblies privately and contrary to law; and 
one of the speakers in the curious work of Minucius Felix calls 
the Christians " latebrosa et lucifugax natio." 

Page 164. — " In the middle of the Seven Valleys" — See Mac- 
rizy's account of these valleys, given by Quatremere, torn. 1. 
p. 450. 

lb. — " Red lakes of Nitria." — For a striking description of 
this region, see " Rameses," a work which, though in [general 
too technical and elaborate, shows, in many passages, to what 
picturesque effects the scenery and mythology of Egypt may 
be made subservient. 



NOTES. 233 

Page 164. — " In the neighborhood of Antinoe." — From the 
position assigned to Antinoe in this work, we should conclude 
that it extended much farther to the north, than the few ruins 
of it that remain would seem to indicate, — so as to render the 
distance between the city and the Mountain of the Birds con- 
siderably less than what it appears to be at present. 

Page 168. — " When Isis, the pure star of lovers." — v. Plutarch 
de Isid. 



lb. — " Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun." — e< Con- 
junctio solis cumluna, quod estveluti utriusque connubium." 
Jablonski. 

Page 171. — " Of his walks a lion is the companion." — M, Cha- 
teaubriand has introduced Paul and his lion into the " Mar- 
tyrs,' 9 liv. 11. 

Page 177. — " A swallow " <Sfc.~ "Je vis dans le desert des 
hirondelles d'un fgris clair comme le sable sur lequel elles 
lent." Denon. 

lb. — "The comet that once desolated this world." — In 
alluding to Whiston's idea of a comet having caused the de- 
luge, M. Girard, having remarked that the word Typhon means 
a deluge, adds, " On ne peut entendre par le terns du regne 
de Typhon que celui pendant lequel le deluge inonda la terre, 
tems pendant lequel on dut observer la comete qui Toccasionna* 
et dont l'apparition fut, non seulement pour les peuples de 
l'Egypte, et de TEthiopie, mais encore pour tous les peuples 
le presage funeste de leur destruction presque totale." De- 
scription de la Vallee de VEgarement. 

Page 179. — " In which the Spirit of my dream" fyc. — " Many 
people," said OHgen, l( have been brought over to Christianity 
by the Spirit of God giving a sudden turn to their minds, and 



234 NOTES. 

offering visions to them either by day or night." On this 
Jortin remarks : — " Why should it be thought improbable 
that Pagans of good dispositions, but not free from prejudices, 
should have been called by divine admonitions, by dreams or 
visions, which might be a support to Christianity in those 
days of distress? " 

Page 181. — " One of those earthen cups. 1 * — Palladius, who 
lived some time in Egypt, describes the monk Ptolemaeus, who 
inhabited the desert of Scete, as collecting in earthen cups 
the abundant dew from the rocks." Bibliothec. Pat, torn. 13. 

Page 182.— " It was to preserve, he said," ^*c— The brief 
sketch here given of the Jewish dispensation agrees very much 
with the view taken of it by Dr. Sumner, in the first chapters 
of his eloquent work, the " Records of the Creation." 

Page 184. — " In vain did I seek the promise if immortality" — 
" It is impossible to deny," says Dr. Sumner, u that the sanc- 
tions of the Mosaic Law are altogether temporal It is, 

indeed, one of the facts that can only be explained by acknow- 
ledging that he really acted under a divine commission, pro- 
mulgating a temporary law for a peculiar purpose," — a much 
more candid and sensible way of treating this very difficult 
point, than by either endeavouring, like Warburton, to escape 
from it into a paradox, or, still worse, contriving, like Dr. 
Graves, to increase its difficulty by explanation, v. " On the 
Pentateuch. 1 * See also Home's Introduction, &c. vol. i. p. 



Page 185.—" All are of the dust," $c— While Voltaire, Vol- 
ney, &c. refer to the Ecclesiastes, as abounding with tenets of 
materialism and Epicurism, Mr. Des Voeux and others find 
in it strong proofs of belief in a future state. The chief diffi- 
culty lies in the chapter from which this text is quoted ; and 
the mode of construction by which_ some writers attempt to 



NOTES. 235 

get rid of it, — namely, by putting these texts into the mouth 
of a foolish reasoner, — appears forced and gratuitous, v. Dr. 
Hales* s Analysis, 

Page 186. — " The noblest and first-created" <Sfc. — This opi- 
nion of the Hermit maybe supposed to have been derived from 
his master, Origen ; but it is not easy to ascertain the exact 
doctrine of Origen on this subject. In the Treatise on Prayer 
attributed to him, he asserts that God the Father alone should 
be invoked, — which, says Bayle, is to "encherir sur les Here- 
sies des Sociniens." Notwithstanding this, however, and 
some other indications of, what was afterwards called, Arian- 
ism, (such as the opinion of the divinity being received by 
communication, which Milner asserts to have been held by this 
Father,) Origen was one of the authorities quoted by Atha- 
nasius in support of his high doctrines of co-eternity and co- 
essentiality. What Priestley says is, perhaps, the best solu- 
tion of these inconsistencies: — " Origen, as well as Clemens 
Alexandrinus, has been thought to favour the Arian princi- 
ples ; but he did it only in words, and not in ideas." — Early 
Opinions, fyc. Whatever uncertainty, however, there may exist 
with respect to the opinion of Origen himself on this subject, 
there is no doubt that the doctrines of his immediate fol- 
lowers were, at least, Anti- Athanasian. " So many Bishops of 
Africa," says Priestley, " were, at this period (between the 
year 255 and 258), Unitarians, that Athanasius says, ' The 
Son of God' — meaning his divinity — * was scarcely any longer 
preached in the churches/ " 

Page 187. — " The restoration of the whole human race to purity 
and happiness" — This benevolent doctrine — which not only 
goes far to solve the great problem of moral and physical evil, 
but which would, if received more generally, tend to soften 
the spirit of uncharitableness, so fatally prevalent among 
Christian sects — was maintained by that great light of the early 



236 NOTES. 

Church, Origen, and has not wanted supporters among more 
modern Theologians. That Tillotson was inclined to the 
opinion appears from his sermon preached before the queen. 
Paley is supposed to have held the same amiable doctrine; 
and Newton (the author of the work on the Prophecies^) is 
also among the supporters of it. For a full account of the 
arguments in favour of this opinion, derived both from reason 
and the express language of Scripture, see Dr. Southwood 
Smith's very interesting work, " On the Divine Government/ 
See also Magee on Atonement, where the doctrine of the advo- 
cates of Universal Restoration is thus briefly, and, I believe, 
fairly explained : — " Beginning with the existence of an infi- 
nitely powerful, wise, and good Being, as the first and funda- 
mental principle of rational religion, they pronounce the es- 
sence of this Being to be love, and from this infer, as a de- 
monstrable consequence, that none of the creatures formed 
by such a Being will ever be made eternally miserable .... 
Since God (they say) would act unjustly in inflicting eternal 
misery for temporary crimes, the sufferings of the wicked can 
be but remedial, and will terminate in a complete purification 
from moral disorder, and in their ultimate restoration to vir- 
tue and happiness." 

lb. — "Glistened over its silver letters.' 9 — The Codex 
Cottonianus of the New Testament is written in silver letters 
on a purple ground. The Codex Cottonianus of the Septua- 
gint version of the Old Testament is supposed to be the iden- 
tical copy that belonged to Origen. 

Page 188. — " Fruit of the desert-shrub. " — v. Hamilton's JEgyp- 
tiaca. 

Page 191. — " The white garment she wore, and the ring of gold 
on her finger." — See, for the custom among the early Chris- 
tians of wearing white for a few days after baptism, Ambros. de 



?sOT£S. 237 

My st, — With respect to the ring, the Bishop of Lincoln says, 
in his work on Tertullian, " The natural inference from these 
words (Tertull. de Pudicitia) appears to be, that a ring used to 
be given in baptism ; but I have found no other trace of such 
a custom." 

Page 193. — " Pebbles of jasper ." — v. Clarke. 

lb. — " Stunted marigold, Src. — " Les Mesembryanihemum nodi- 
forum et Zygophyllum coccineum, plantes grasses des deserts, 
rejetees a cause de leur acrete par les chameaux, les chevres, 
et les gazelles." M. Velile upon the plants of Egypt. 

lb. — " Antinoe," — v. Savary and Quatremere. 

Page 197. — " I have observed in my walks." — " Je remarquai 
avec une reflexion triste, qu'un animal de proie accompagne 
presque toujours les pas de ce joli et frele individu." 

Page 200. — " Some denier of Christ" — " Those Christians 
who sacrificed to idols to save themselves were called by va- 
rious names, Thuvificati, Sacrificati, Mittentes, Negatores, &c. 
Baronius mentions a bishop of this period (253), Marcellinus, 
who, yielding to the threats of the Gentiles, threw incense 
upon the altar, v. Arnob. contra Gent. lib. 7. 

Page 205. — " The clear voice with which," 8fc. — The merit of 
the confession " Christianus sum/' or " Christiana sum," was 
considerably enhanced by the clearness and distinctness with 
which it was pronounced. Eusebius mentions the martyr 
Vetius as making it AapLvrpoTaTrj (puvn. 

Page 210. — *' The band round the young Christian's brow." — 
We find poisonous crowns mentioned by Pliny, under the de- 
signation^of "coronas ferales." Paschalius, too, gives the 



238 notes. 

following account of these " deadly garlands," as he calls 
them ; — " s Sed miruni est tarn salutare inventum humanam 
nequitiam reperisse, quomodo ad nefarios usus traducent. 
Nempe, repertae sunt nefandae coronae harum, quas dixi, tam 
salubrium per nomen quidem et speciem imitatrices, at re et 
etfeetu ferales, atque adeo capitis, cui imponuntur, interfec- 
trices." De Coronis, 



ALCIPHRON. 



ALCIPHRON. 



LETTER I. 

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS. 

Well may you wonder at my flight 

From those fair Gardens, in whose bowers 
Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, 
Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, 

Is left to grace this world of ours. 
Well may my comrades, as they roam, 

On evenings sweet as this, inquire 
Why I have left that happy home 

Where all is found that all desire, 

And Time hath wings that never tire ; 
Where bliss, in all the countless shapes 

That Fancy's self to bliss hath given, 
Comes clustering round, like road-side grapes 

That woo the traveller's lip, at even ; 

B 



ALCIPHRON. 

Where Wisdom flings not joy away, — 
As Pallas in the stream, they say, 
Once flung her flute, — but smiling owns 
That woman's lip can send forth tones 
Worth all the music of those spheres 
So many dream of, but none hears ; 
Where Virtue's self puts on so well 

Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loth 
From either nymph apart to dwell, 

We finish by embracing both. 

Yes, such the place of bliss, I own, 
From all whose charms I just have flown ; 
And ev'n while thus to thee I write, 

And by the Nile's dark flood recline, 
Fondly, in thought, I wing my flight 
Back to those groves and gardens bright, 
And often think, by this sweet light, 

How lovelily they all must shine ; 
Can see that graceful temple throw 

Down the green slope its lengthen'd shade, 
While, on the marble steps below, 

There sits some fair Athenian maid, 
Over some favourite volume bending ; 

And, by her side, a youthful sage 
Holds back the ringlets that, descending, 

Would else o'ershadow all the page. 



ALC1PHR0N. 

But hence such thoughts ! — nor let me grieve 
O'er scenes of joy that I but leave, 
As the bird quits awhile its nest 
To come again with livelier zest. 

And now to tell thee — what I fear 
Thou'lt gravely smile at — why I'm here. 
Though through my life's short, sunny dream, 

I've floated without pain or care, 
Like a light leaf, down pleasure's stream, 

Caught in each sparkling eddy there ; 
Though never Mirth awaked a strain 
That my heart echoed not again ; 
Yet have I felt, when ev'n most gay, 

Sad thoughts — I knew not whence or why — 

Suddenly o'er my spirit fly, 
Like clouds, that, ere we've time to say 

" How bright the sky is ! " shade the sky. 
Sometimes so vague, so undefin'd 
Were these strange darkenings of my mind — 
While nought but joy around me beam'd 

So causelessly they've come and flown, 
That not of life or earth they seem'd, 

But shadows from some world unknown. 
More oft, however, 'twas the thought 

How soon that scene, with all its play 

Of life and gladness must decay, — 
b 2 



^ ALCIPHRON. 

Those lips I prest, the hands I caught — 
Myself, — the crowd that mirth had brought 
Around me, — swept like weeds away! 

This thought it was that came to shed 

O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys ; 
And, close as shade with sunshine, wed 

Its sadness with my happiest joys. 
Oh, but for this disheartening voice 

Stealing amid our mirth to say 
That all, in which we most rejoice, 

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey — 
But for this bitter — only this — 
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, 
And capable as feels my soul 
Of draining to its dregs the whole, 
I should turn earth to heav'n, and be, 
If bliss made Gods, a Deity ! 

Thou know'st that night — the very last 
That with my Garden friends I pass'd — 
When the School held its feast of mirth 
To celebrate our founder's birth. 
And all that He in dreams but saw 
When he set Pleasure on the throne 
Of this bright world, and wrote her law 
In human hearts, was felt and known — 



ALCIPHROtf. 

Not in unreal dreams, but true, 
Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew, — 
By hearts and bosoms, that each felt 
Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt. 

That night, when all our mirth was o'er, 

The minstrels silent, and the feet 
Of the young maidens heard no more — 

So stilly was the time, so sweet, 
And such a calm came o'er that scene, 
Where life and revel late had been — 
Lone as the quiet of some bay, 
From which the sea hath ebb'd away — 
That still I linger'd, lost in thought, 

Gazing upon the stars of night, 
Sad and intent, as if I sought 

Some mournful secret in their light ; 
And ask'd them, mid that silence, why 
Man, glorious man, alone must die, 
While they, less wonderful than he, 
Shine on through all eternity. 

That night — thou haply may'st forget 
Its loveliness — but 'twas a night 

To make earth's meanest slave regret 
Leaving a world so soft and bright. 

On one side, in the dark blue sky, 

Lonely and radiant, was the eye 



ALCIPHRON. 

Of Jove himself, while, on the other, 

'Mong stars that came out one by one, 
The young moon — like the Roman mother 

Among her living jewels — shone. 
" Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought, 

" Pure and eternal as they are, 
" There could to earth some power be brought, 
" Some charm, with their own essence fraught, 

" To make man deathless as a star, 
" And open to his vast desires 

" A course, as boundless and sublime 
" As lies before those comet-fires, 

" That roam and burn throughout all time ! " 

While thoughts like these absorb'd my mind, 

That weariness which earthly bliss, 
However sweet, still leaves behind, 

As if to show how earthly 'tis, 
Came lulling o'er me, and I laid 

My limbs at that fair statue's base — 
That miracle, which Art hath made 

Of all the choice of Nature's grace — 
To which so oft I've knelt and sworn, 

That, could a living maid like her 
Unto this wondering world be born, 

I would, myself, turn worshipper. 



ALCIPHRON. 

Sleep came then o'er me, — and I seem'd 

To be transported far away 
To a bleak desert plain, where gleam'd 

One single, melancholy ray, 
Throughout that darkness dimly shed 

From a small taper in the hand 
Of one, who, pale as are the dead, 

Before me took his spectral stand, 
And said, while, awfully a smile 

Came o'er the wanness of his cheek — 
" Go, and, beside the sacred Nile, 

" You'll find th' Eternal Life you seek." 

Soon as he spoke these words, the hue 
Of death upon his features grew — 
Like the pale morning, when o'er night 
She gains the victory — full of light ; 
While the small torch he held became 
A glory in his hand, whose flame 
Brighten'd the desert suddenly, 

Ev'n to the far horizon's line — 
Along whose level I could see 

Gardens and groves, that seem'd to shine, 
As if then freshly o'er them played 
A vernal rainbow's rich cascade. 
While music was heard every where, 
Breathing, as 'twere itself the air, 



ALCIPHRON. 

And spirits, on whose wings the hue 
Of heav'n still linger'd, round me flew, 
Till from all sides such splendours broke, 
That with the excess of light, I woke ! 

Such was my dream ; — and, I confess, 

Though none of all our creedless school 
Hath e'er believ'd, or reverenc'd less 

The fables of the priest-led fool, 
Who tells us of a soul, a mind, 
Separate and pure, within us shrink, 
Which is to live — ah hope too bright ! — 
For ever in yon fields of light ; — 
Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes 

Of Gods are on him, — as if, blest 
And blooming in their own blue skies, 
Th* eternal Gods were not too wise 

To let weak man disturb their rest ! — 
Though thinking of such creeds as thou 

And all our Garden sages think, 
Yet is there something, I allow, 

In dreams like this — a sort of link 
With worlds unseen, which, from the hour 

I first could lisp my thoughts till now, 
Hath master'd me with spell-like power. 

And who can tell, as we're combin'd 
Of various atoms, — some refined, 



ALCIPHRON. 

Like those that scintillate and play 
In the fix'd stars, — some, gross as they 
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay, — 
Who can be sure, but 'tis the best 

And brightest atoms of our frame, 

Those most akin to stellar flame, 
That shine out thus, when we're at rest ; — 
Ev'n as their kindred stars, whose light 
Comes out but in the silent night. 
Or is it that there lurks, indeed, 
Some truth in Man's prevailing creed, 
And that our Guardians, from on high, 

Come, in that pause from toil and sin, 
To put the senses' curtain by, 

And on the wakeful soul look in ! 

Vain thought ! — but yet, howe'er it be, 

Dreams, more than once, have prov'd to me 

Oracles, truer far than Oak, 

Or Dove, or Tripod ever spoke. 

And 'twas the words — thou'lt hear and smile — 

The words that phantom seem'd to speak — 
" Go, and beside the sacred Nile 

You'll find the Eternal Life you seek, — " 
That, haunting me by night, by day, 

At length, as with the unseen hand 
Of Fate itself, urg'd me away 

From Athens to this Holy Land ; 



10 ALCIPHRON. 

Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught, 
The myst'ries that, as yet, nor sun 

Nor eye hath reach'd — oh blessed thought !- 
May sleep this everlasting one. 

Farewell— when to our Garden friends 
Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends 
The gayest of their school thus far, 
Wandering beneath Canopus' star, 
Tell them that, wander where he will, 

Or, howsoe'er they now condemn 
His vague and vain pursuit, he still 

Is worthy of the School and them ; — 
Still, all their own, — nor e'er forgets, 

Ev'n while his heart and soul pursue 
Th' Eternal Light which never sets, 

The many meteor joys that do, 
But seeks them, hails them with delight 
Where'er they meet his longing sight. 
And, if his life must wane away, 
Like other lives, at least the day, 
The hour it lasts shall, like a fire 
With incense fed, in sweets expire. 



ALCIPHRON. 11 



LETTER II. 



FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Memphis. 

'Tis true, alas — the mysteries and the lore 

I came to study on this wondrous shore, 

Are all forgotten in the new delights, 

The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights. 

Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak 

From subterranean temples, those / seek 

Come from the breathing shrines, where Beauty lives, 

And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. 

Instead of honouring Isis in those rites 

At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights 

Her first young crescent on the holy stream — 

When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam 

And number o'er the nights she hath to run, 

Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. 

While o'er some mystic leaf, that dimly lends 

A clue into past times, the student bends, 



12 ALCIPHRON. 

And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread 

Back through the shadowy knowledge of the dead, — 

The only skill, alas, I yet can claim 

Lies in deciphering some new lov'd-one's name — 

Some gentle missive, hinting time and place, 

In language, soft as Memphian reed can trace. 

And where — oh where's the heart that could withstand 
Th' unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land, 
Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurl'd, 
And Love hath temples ancient as the world ! 
Where mystery, like the veil by Beauty worn, 
Hides but to heighten, shades but to adorn ; 
And that luxurious melancholy, born 
Of passion and of genius, sheds a gloom 
Making joy holy ; — where the bower and tomb 
Stand side by side, and Pleasure learns from Death 
The instant value of each moment's breath. 
Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream 
This lovely land now looks ! — the glorious stream, 
That late, between its banks, was seen to glide 
'Mong shrines and marble cities, on each side 
Glittering like jewels strung along a chain, 
Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain 
And valley, like a giant from his bed 
Rising with out-stretch'd limbs, hath grandly spread. 



ALCIPHRON. 13 

While far as sight can reach, beneath as clear 
And blue a heav'n as ever bless'd our sphere, 
Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry domes, 
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes 
Of mighty Gods, and pyramids, whose hour 
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower! 

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make 

One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, 

Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives 

Of life and motion, ever moves and lives. 

Here, up the steps of temples from the wave 

Ascending, in procession slow and grave, 

Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands 

And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands ; 

While there, rich barks — fresh from those sunny tracts 

Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts — 

Glide, with their precious lading to the sea, 

Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory, 

Gems from the isle of Meroe, and those grains 

Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. 

Here, where the waters wind into a bay 

Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims, on their way 

To Sais or Bubastus, among beds 

Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads, 

Push their light barks, and there, as in a bower, 

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour — 



14 ALCIPHRON. 

Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, 
That leaf, from which its waters drink most sweet. 
While haply, not far off, beneath a bank 
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank 
Is played in the cool current by a train 
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,* whose chain 
Around two conquerors of the world was cast 
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last. 

For oh, believe not them, who dare to brand, 
As poor in charms, the women of this land. 
Though darken'd by that sun, whose spirit flows 
Through every vein, and tinges as it goes, 
'Tis but th' embrowning of the fruit that tells 
How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells, — 
The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear, 
Announcing heav'n in half-caught glimpses there. 
And never yet did tell-tale looks set free 
The secret of young hearts more tenderly. 
Such eyes!— long, shadowy, with that languid fall 
Of the fring'd lids, which may be seen in all 
Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays — 
Lending such looks as, on their marriage days 
Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze ! 
Then for their grace— mark but the nymph-like shapes 
Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes 

* Cleopatra. 



ALCIPHRON. 15 

From green Anthylla, or light urns of flowers — 
Not our own Sculpture, in her happiest hours, 
E'er imag'd forth, even at the touch of him* 
Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb ! 
Then, canst thou wonder if, mid scenes like these, 
I should forget all graver mysteries, 
All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best 
In heav'n or earth, the art of being blest ! 

Yet are there times, — though brief, I own, their stay, 

Like summer -clouds that shine themselves away, — 

Moments of gloom, when ev'n these pleasures pall 

Upon my sadd'ning heart, and I recall 

That Garden dream — that promise of a power, 

Oh were there such ! — to lengthen out life's hour 

On, on, as through a vista, far away 

Opening before us into endless day ! 

And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought 

Come on that evening — bright as ever brought 

Light's golden farewell to the world — when first 

The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst 

Awfully on my sight — standing sublime 

'Twixt earth and heav'n, the watch-towers of Time, 

From whose lone summit, when his reign hath past 

From earth for ever, he will look his last ! 

* Apelles. 



16 ALCIPHRON. 

There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round 

Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound 

In the still air that circled them, which stole 

Like music of past times into my soul. 

I thought what myriads of the wise and brave 

And beautiful had sunk into the grave, 

Since earth first saw these wonders — and I said 

" Are things eternal only for the Dead ? 

" Is there for Man no hope — but this, which dooms 

" His only lasting trophies to be tombs ! 

" But 'tis not so — earth, heaven, all nature shows 

" He may become immortal, — may unclose 

a The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise 

" Redeem'd from earth, a creature of the skies ! 

*' And who can say, among the written spells 

" From Hermes' hand, that, in these shrines and cells 

" Have, from the Flood, lay hid, there may not be 

" Some secret clue to immortality, 

" Some amulet, whose spell can keep life's fire 

" Awake within us, never to expire ! 

" 'Tis known that, on the Emerald Table,* hid 

" Forages in yon loftiest pyramid, 

" The Thrice-Greatf did himself, engrave, of old, 

" The chymic mystery that gives endless gold. 

* See Notes on the Epicurean. 
t The Hermes Trismegistus. 



ALCIPHRON. 17 

li And why may not this mightier secret dwell 

" Within the same dark chambers ? who can tell 

" But that those kings, who, by the written skill 

" Of th' Emerald Table, call'd forth gold at will, 

" And quarries upon quarries heap'd and hurl'd, 

" To build them domes that might outstand the world — 

" Who knows but that the heavenlier art, which shares 

" The life of Gods with man, was also theirs — 

" That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power 

" Of fate and death, are living at this hour ; 

" And these, the giant homes they still possess, 

" Not tombs, but everlasting palaces, 

" Within whose depths, hid from the world above, 

" Even now they wander, with the few they love, 

" Through subterranean gardens, by a light 

" Unknown on earth, which hath nor dawn nor night ! 

" Else, why those deathless structures ? why the grand 

" And hidden halls, that undermine this land ? 

" Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go 

" Through the dark windings of that realm below, 

" Nor aught from heav'n itself, except the God 

" Of Silence, through those endless labyrinths trod ?" 

Thus did I dream — wild, wandering dreams, I own, 
But such as haunt me ever, if alone, 
Or in that 'pause 'twixt joy and joy I be, 
Like a ship hush'd between two waves at sea. 
c 



18 ALCIPHRON. 

Then do these spirit whisperings, like the sound 
Of the Dark Future, come appalling round ; 
Nor can I break the trance that holds me then, 
Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again ! 

Ev'n now for new adventure, new delight, 

My heart is on the wing — this very night, 

The Temple on that island, half-way o'er 

From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore, 

Sends up its annual rite* to her, whose beams 

Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams ; 

The nymph, who dips her urn in silent lakes, 

And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes j — 

Oh, not our Dian of the North, who chains 

In vestal ice the current of young veins, 

But she who haunts the gay Bubastianf grove, 

And owns she sees, from her bright heav'n above, 

Nothing on earth to match that heav'n but Love. 

Thinks then, what bliss will be abroad to-night ! 

Beside, that host of nymphs, who meet the sight 

Day after day, familiar as the sun, 

Coy buds of beauty, yet unbreath'd upon, 

And all the hidden loveliness, that lies, 

Shut up, as are the beams of sleeping eyes, 



* The great Festival of the Moon. 

t Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology. 



ALCIPHRON. 1 9 

Within these twilight shrines — to-night will be, 
Soon as the Moon's white bark in heav'n we see, 
Let loose, like birds, for this festivity ! 

And mark, 'tis nigh ; already the sun bids 

If is evening farewell to the Pyramids, 

As he hath done, age after age, till they 

Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray ; 

While their great shadows, stretching from the light, 

Look like the first colossal steps of Night, 

Stretching across the valley, to invade 

The distant hills of porphyry with their shade. 

Around, as signals of the setting beam, 

Gay, gilded flags on every house-top gleam : 

While, hark !— -from all the temples a rich swell 

Of music to the Moon— farewell — farewell. 



c 2 



20 ALCIPHRON. 



LETTER III. 



FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Memphis. 
There is some star — or it may be 

That moon we saw so near last night — 
Which comes athwart my destiny 

For ever, with misleading light. 
If for a moment, pure and wise 

And calm I feel, there quick doth fall 
A spark from some disturbing eyes, 
That through my heart, soul, being flies, 

And makes a wildfire of it all, 
I've seen — oh, Cleon, that this earth 
Should e'er have giv'n such beauty birth ! — 
That man — but, hold — hear all that pass'd 
Since y ester-night, from first to last. 

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow, 

And beautiful, as if she came 
Fresh from the Elysian bowers below, 

Was, with a loud and sweet acclaim 



ALCIPHRON. 21 

Welcom'd from every breezy height, 
Where crowds stood waiting for her light. 
And well might they who view'd the scene 

Then lit up all around them, say, 
That never yet had Nature been 

Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray, 
Or rival'd her own noon- tide face, 
With purer show of moonlight grace. 

Memphis, — still grand, though not the same 

UnrivalPd Memphis, that could seize 
From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame, 

And wear it bright through centuries — 
Now, in the moonshine, that came down 

Like a last smile upon that crown, 
Memphis, still grand, among her lakes, 

Her pyramids and shrines of fire, 
Rose, like a vision, that half breaks 
On one who, dreaming still, awakes 

To music from some midnight choir : 
While to the west, where gradual sinks 

In the red sands, from Libya roll'd, 
Some mighty column, or fair sphynx, 

That stood in kingly courts, of old, 
It seem'd as, mid the pomps that shone 
Thus gaily round him, Time look'd on, 
Waiting till all, now bright and blest, 
Should fall beneath him like the rest. 



22 ALC1PHR0N. 

No sooner had the setting sun 
Proclaim'd the festal rite begun, 
And, mid their idol's fullest beams, 

The Egyptian world was all afloat, 
Than I, who live upon these streams, 

Like a young Nile-bird, turn'd my boat 
To the fair island, on whose shores, 
Through leafy palms and sycamores, 
Already shone the moving lights 
Of pilgrims, hastening to the rites. 
While, far around, like ruby sparks 
Upon the water, lighted barks, 
Of every form and kind — from those 

That down Syene's cataract shoots, 
To the grand, gilded barge, that rows 

To sound of tambours and of flutes, 
And wears at night, in words of flame, 
On the rich prow, its master's name ; — 
All were alive, and made this sea 

Of cities busy as a hill 
Of summer ants, caught suddenly 

In the overflowing of a rill. 

Landed upon the isle, I soon 

Through marble alleys and small groves 
Of that mysterious palm she loves, 

Reach'd the fair Temple of the Moon ; 



ALCIPIIROX. 23 

And there — as slowly through the last 
Dim-lighted vestibule I pass'd — 
Between the porphyry pillars, twin'd 

With palm and ivy, I could see 
A band of youthful maidens wind, 

In measur'd walk, half dancingly, 
Round a small shrine, on which was plac'd 

That bird,* whose plumes of black and white 
Wear in their hue, by Nature trac'd, 

A type of the moon's shadow'd light. 

In drapery, like woven snow, 

These nymphs were clad, and each, below 

The rounded bosom, loosely wore 

A dark blue zone, or bandelet, 
With little silver stars all o'er, 

As are the skies at midnight, set. 
While in their tresses, braided through, 

Sparkled the flower of Egypt's lakes, 
The silvery lotus, in whose hue 

As much delight the young Moon takes, 
As doth the Day-God to behold 

The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold. 
And, as they gracefully went round 

The worshipp'd bird, some to the beat 
Of castanets, some to the sound 

Of the shrill sistrum tim'd their feet ; 

* The Ibis. 



24 ALCIPHROX. 

While others, at each step they took, 
A tinkling chain of silver shook. 

They seem'd all fair — but there was one 
On whom the light had not yet shone, 
Or shone but partly — so downcast 
She held her brow, as slow she pass'd. 
And yet to me, there seem'd to dwell 

A charm about that unseen face — 
A something, in the shade that fell 

Over that brow's imagin'd grace, 
Which took me more than all the best 
Outshining beauties of the rest. 
And her alone my eyes could see, 
Enchain'd by this sweet mystery ; 
And her alone I watch'd, as round 
She glided o'er that marble ground, 
Stirring not more th' unconscious air 
Than if a Spirit had moved there. 
Till suddenly, wide open flew 
The Temple's folding gates, and threw 
A splendour from within, a flood 
Of glory where these maidens stood. 
While, with that light, — as if the same 
Rich source gave birth to both, — there came 
A swell of harmony, as grand 
As e'er was born of voice and hand, 



ALCIPHRON. 25 

Filling the gorgeous aisles around 

With that mix'd burst of light and sound. 

Then was it, by the flash that blaz'd 

Full o'er her features — oh 'twas then, 
As startingly her eyes she rais'd, 

But quick let fall their lids again, 
I saw — not Psyche's self, when first 
Upon the threshold of the skies 
She paus'd, while heaven's glory burst 

Newly upon her downcast eyes, 
Could look more beautiful or blush 

With holier shame than did this maid, 
Whom now I saw, in all that gush 

Of splendour from the aisles, display'd. 
Never — tho 5 well thou know'st how much 

I've felt the sway of Beauty's star- 
Never did her bright influence touch 

My soul into its depths so far ; 
And had that vision linger'd there 

^One minute more, I should have flown, 
Forgetful who I was and where, 

And, at her feet in worship thrown, 

ProfFer'd my soul through life her own. 

But, scarcely had that burst of light 
And music broke on ear and sight, 



26 ALCIPHROX. 

Than up the aisle the bird took wing, 
As if on heavenly mission sent, 

While after him, with graceful spring, 
Like some unearthly creatures, meant 
To live in that mix'd element 
Of light and song, the young maids went ; 

And she, who in my heart had thrown 

A spark to burn for life, was flown. 

In vain I tried to follow ; — bands 

Of reverend chanters filPd the aisle : 
Where'er I sought to pass, their wands 

Motion'd me back, while many a file 
Of sacred nymphs — but ah, not they 
Whom my eyes look'd for — throng'd the way. 
Perplex'd, impatient, mid this crowd 
Of faces, lights — the o'erwhelming cloud 
Of incense round me, and my blood 
Full of its new-born fire, — I stood, 
Nor mov'd, nor breath'd, but when I caught 

A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone, 
Or wreath of lotus, which, I thought, 

Like those she wore at distance shone. 

But no, 'twas vain — hour after hour, 
Till my heart's throbbing turn'd to pain, 

And my strain'd eyesight lost its power, 
I sought her thus, but all in vain. 



ALCIPHRON". 27 

At length, hot, — wilder'd, — in despair, 

I rush'd into the cool night-air, 

And hurrying (though with many a look 

Back to the busy Temple) took 

My way along the moonlight shore, 

And sprung into my boat once more. 

There is a Lake, that to the north 
Of Memphis stretches grandly forth, 
Upon whose silent shore the Dead 

Have a proud City of their own,* 
With shrines and pyramids o'erspread, — 
Where many an ancient kingly head 

Slumbers, immortaliz'd in stone ; 
And where, through marble grots beneath, 

The lifeless, rang'd like sacred things, 
Nor wanting aught of life but breath, 

Lie in their painted coverings, 
And on each new successive race, 

That visit their dim haunts below, 
Look with the same unwithering face, 
They wore three thousand years ago. 
There, Silence, thoughtful God, who loves 
The neighbourhood of death, in groves 
Of asphodel lies hid, and weaves 
His hushing spell among the leaves, — 

* Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis. 



28 ALCIPHRON. 

Nor ever noise disturbs the air, 

Save the low, humming, mournful sound 

Of priests, within their shrines, at prayer 
For the fresh Dead entomb'd around. 

'Twas tow'rd this place of death — in mood 

Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark- 
I now across the shining flood 

Unconscious turn'd my light-wing'd bark. 
The form of that young maid, in all 

Its beauty, was before me still ; 
And oft I thought, if thus to call 

Her image to my mind at will, 
If but the memory of that one 
Bright look of hers, for ever gone, 
Was to my heart worth all the rest 
Of woman-kind, beheld, possest — 
What would it be, if wholly mine, 
Within these arms, as in a shrine, 
Hallow'd by Love, I saw her shine, 
An idol, worshipp'd by the light 
Of her own beauties, day and night — 
If 'twas a blessing but to see 
And lose again, what would this be ? 

In thoughts like these — but often crost 
By darker threads — my mind was lost, 



ALCIPHRON. 29 

Till, near that City of the Dead, 
Wak'd from my trance, I saw o'erhead — 
As if by some enchanter bid 

Suddenly from the wave to rise — 
Pyramid over pyramid 

Tower in succession to the skies ; 
While one, aspiring, as if soon 

'Twould touch the heavens, rose o'er all ; 
And, on its summit, the white moon 

Rested, as on a pedestal ! 

The silence of the lonely tombs 

And temples round, where nought was heard 
But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes, 

Shaken, at times, by breeze or bird, 
Form'd a deep contrast to the scene 
Of revel, where I late had been"; 
To those gay sounds, that still came o'er, 
Faintly, from many a distant shore, 
And th' unnumber'd lights, that shone 
Far o'er the flood, from Memphis on 
To the Moon's Isle and Babylon, 

My oars were lifted, and my boat 

Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream ; 

While my vague thoughts, alike afloat, 
Drifted through many an idle dream, 



30 



ALCIPHROtf. 

With all of which, wild and unfix'd 
As was their aim, that vision mix'd, 
That bright nymph of the Temple — now, 
With the same innocence of brow 
She wore within the lighted fane, — 
Now kindling, through each pulse and vein 
With passion of such deep-felt fire 
As Gods might glory to inspire ; — 
And now — oh Darkness of the tomb, 

That must eclipse ev'n light like hers ! 
Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom 

Of those eternal sepulchres. 

Scarce had I turn'd my eyes away 

From that dark death-place, at the thought, 
When by the sound of dashing spray 

From a light oar my ear was caught, 
While past me, through the moonlight, sail'd 

A little gilded bark, that bore 
Two female figures, closely veil'd 

And mantled, towards that funeral shore. 
They landed — and the boat again 
Put off across the watery plain. 

Shall I confess — to thee I may — 

That never yet hath come the chance 

Of a new music, a new ray 

From woman's voice, from woman's glance, 



ALC1PHR0N. 31 

Which — let it find me how it might, 

In joy or grief — I did not bless, 
And wander after, as a light 

Leading to undreamt happiness. 
And chiefly now, when hopes so vain 
Were stirring in my heart and brain, 
When Fancy had allur'd my soul 

Into a chase, as vague and far 
As would be his, who fix'd his goal 

In the horizon, or some star — 
Any bewilderment, that brought 
More near to earth my high-flown thought — 
The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, 
Less high and heavenly, but more sure, 
Came welcome — and was then to me 
What the first flowery isle must be 
To vagrant birds, blown out to sea. 

Quick to the shore I urged my bark, 

And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed 
Between the lofty tombs, could mark 

Those figures, as with hasty tread 
They glided on — till in the shade 

Of a small pyramid, which through 
Some boughs of palm its peak display'd, 

They vanish'd instant from my view. 



32 ALCIPHRON. 

I hurried to the spot — no trace 
Of life was in that lonely place ; 
And, had the creed I hold by taught 
Of other worlds, I might have thought 
Some mocking spirits had from thence 
Come in this guise to cheat my sense. 

At length, exploring darkly round 
The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found 
An iron portal, — opening high 

'Twixt peak and base — and, with a prayV 
To the bliss-loving moon, whose eye 

Alone beheld me, sprung in there. 
Downward the narrow stairway led 
Through many a duct obscure and dread, 

A labyrinth for mystery made, 
With wanderings onward, backward, round, 
And gathering still, where'er it wound, 

But deeper density of shade. 

Scarce had I ask'd myself " Can aught 

That man delights in sojourn here ?" — 
When, suddenly, far off, I caught 

A glimpse of light, remote, but clear, — 
Whose welcome glimmer seem'd to pour 

From some alcove or cell, that ended 
The long, steep, marble corridor, 

Through which I now, all hope, descended. 



ALCIPHRON. 33 

Never did Spartan to his bride 
With warier foot at midnight glide. 
It seem'd as echo's self were dead 
In this dark place, so mute my tread. 
Reaching, at length, that light, I saw — 

Oh listen to the scene, now raised 
Before my eyes — then guess the awe, 

The still, rapt awe with which I gazed. 
? Twas a small chapel, lin'd around 
With the fair, spangling marble, found 
In many a ruin'd shrine that stands 
Half seen above the Libyan sands. 
The walls were richly sculptur'd o'er, 
And character'd with that dark lore 
Of times before the Flood, whose key 
Was lost in th' ' Universal Sea,' — 
While on the roof was pictured bright 

The Theban beetle, as he shines, 

When the Nile's mighty flow declines, 
And forth the creature springs to light, 
With life regenerate in his wings : — 
Emblem of vain imaginings ! 
Of a new world, when this is gone, 
In which the spirit still lives on ! 

Direct beneath this type, reclin'd 
On a black granite altar, lay 



34 ALCIPHRON. 

A female form, in crystal shrin'd, 
And looking fresh as if the ray 
Of soul had fled but yesterday. 

While in relief, of silvery hue, 

Graved on the altar's front were seen 

A branch of lotus, broken in two, 
As that fair creature's life had been, 

And a small bird that from its spray 

Was winging, like her soul, away. 

But brief the glimpse I now could spare 

To the wild, mystic wonders round ; 
For there was yet one wonder there, 

That held me as by witchery bound. 
The lamp, that through the chamber shed 
Its vivid beam, was at the head 
Of her who on that altar slept ; 

And near it stood, when first I came, — 
Bending her brow, as if she kept 

Sad watch upon its silent flame — 
A female form, as yet so plac'd 

Between the lamp's strong glow and me, 
That I but saw, in outline trac'd, 

The shadow of her symmetry. 
Yet did my heart — I scarce knew why — 
Ev'n at that shadow'd shape beat high. 



ALCIPHRON. 35 

Nor long was it, ere full in sight 
The figure turn'd ; and, by the light 
That touch'd her features, as she bent 
Over the crystal monument, 
I saw 'twas she — the same — the same — 

That lately stood before me — bright'ning 
The holy spot, where she but came 

And went again, like summer lightning ! 

Upon the crystal, o'er the breast 
Of her who took that silent rest, 
There was a cross of silver lying — 

Another type of that blest home, 
Which hope, and pride, and fear of dying 

Build for us in a world to come : — 
This silver cross the maiden rais'd 
To her pure lips : — then, having gazed 
Some minutes on that tranquil face, 3 ; 
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace, 
Upward she turn'd her brow serene, 

As if, intent on heaven, those eyes 
Saw then nor roof nor cloud between 

Their own pure orbits and the skies ; 
And, though her lips no motion made, 

And that fix'd look was all her speech, 
I saw that the rapt spirit prayed 

Deeper within than words could reach. 
d 2 



36 ALCIPHRON. 

Strange pow'r of Innocence, to turn 

To its own hue whate'er comes near ; 
And make even vagrant Passion burn 

With purer warmth within its sphere ! 
She who, but one short hour before, 
Had come, like sudden wild-fire, o'er 
My heart and brain, — whom gladly, even 

From that bright Temple, in the face 
Of those proud ministers of heaven, 

I would have borne, in wild embrace, 
And risk'd all punishment, divine 
And human, but to make her mine ; — 
That maid was now before me, thrown 

By fate itself into my arms — 
There standing, beautiful, alone, 

With nought to guard her, but her charms. 
Yet did I — oh did ev'n a breath 

From my parch'd lips, too parch'd to move, 
Disturb a scene where thus, beneath 

Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death 

Held converse through undying love ? 
No — smile and taunt me as thou wilt — 

Though but to gaze thus was delight, 
Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt, 

To win by stealth so pure a sight : 
And rather than a look profane 



ALCIPHRON, 37 

Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, 
Or voice, or whisper broke the chain 

That link'd her spirit with the skies, 
I would have gladly, in that place, 
From which I watch'd her heav'n-ward face, 
Let my heart break, without one beat 
That could disturb a prayer so sweet. 

Gently, as if on every tread, 

My life, my more than life depended, 

Back through the corridor that led 
To this blest scene I now ascended, 

And with slow seeking, and some pain, 

And many a winding tried in vain, 

Emerg'd to upper air again. 

The sun had freshly ris'n, and down 

The marble hills of Araby, 
Scatter'd, as from a conqueror's crown, 

His beams into that living sea. 
There seem'd a glory in his light, 

Newly put on — as if for pride 
Of the high homage paid this night 

To his own Isis, his young bride, 
Now fading feminine away 
In her proud Lord's superior ray. 



38 ALCIPHRON. 

My mind's first impulse was to fly 
At once from this entangling net — 

New scenes to range, new loves to try, 

Or, in mirth, wine, and luxury 
Of every sense, that night forget. 

But vain the effort — spell-bound still, 

I linger'd, without power or will 

To turn my eyes from that dark door, 

Which now enclos'd her 'mong the dead ; 
Oft fancying, through the boughs, that o'er 
The sunny pile their flickering shed, 

'Twas her light form again I saw 

Starting to earth — still pure and bright, 

But wakening, as I hop'd, less awe, 
Thus seen by morning's natural light, 
Than in that strange, dim cell at night. 

But no, alas, — she ne'er return'd : 

Nor yet — tho' still I watch — nor yet, 
Though the red sun for hours hath burn'd, 

And now, in his mid course, hath met 
The peak of that eternal pile 

He pauses still at noon to bless, 
Standing beneath his downward smile, 

Like a great Spirit, shadowless ! — 
Nor yet she comes — while here, alone, 

Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, 



ALCIPHRON. 39 

Where no heart beats except my own, 
Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, 

By turns I watch, and rest, and trace 
These lines, that are to waft to thee 
My last night's wondrous history. 

Dost thou remember, in that Isle 

Of our own Sea, where thou and I 
Linger'd so long, so happy a while, 

Till all the summer flowers went by — 
How gay it was, when sunset brought 

To the cool Well our favourite maids — 
Some we had won, and some we sought — 

To dance within the fragrant shades, 
And, till the stars went down, attune 
Their Fountain Hymns* to the young moon ? 

That time, too — oh, 'tis like a dream — 

When from Scamander's holy tide 
I sprung, as Genius of the Stream, 

And bore away that blooming bride, 
Who thither came, to yield her charms 

(As Phrygian maids are wont, ere wed) 
Into the cold Scamander's arms, 

But met, and welcom'd mine, instead — 

* These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, 
are still common in the Greek isles. 



40 ALCIPHRON. 

Wondering, as on my neck she fell, 

How river-gods could love so well ! 

Who would have thought that he, who rov'd 

Like the first bees of summer then, 
Rifling each sweet, nor ever lov'd 

But the free hearts, that lov'd again, 
Readily as the reed replies 
To the least breath that round it sighs — 
Is the same dreamer who, last night, 
Stood aw'd and breathless at the sight 
Of one Egyptian girl ; and now 
Wanders among these tombs, with brow 
Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just, 
Himself, had ris'n from out their dust ! 

Yet, so it is — and the same thirst 

For something high and pure, above 
This withering world, which, from the first, 
Made me drink deep of woman's love, — 
As the one joy, to heav'n most near 
Of all our hearts can meet with here, — 
Still burns me up, still keeps awake 
A fever nought but death can slake. 

Farewell ; whatever may befall, — 

Or bright, or dark — thou'lt know it all. 



ALCIPHRON. 41 



LETTER IV. 



FHOM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Wonders on wonders ; sights that lie 

Where never sun gave flow'ret birth ; 
Bright marvels, hid from th' upper sky, 
And myst'ries that are born and die 

Deep in the very heart of earth ! — 
All that the ancient Orpheus, led 

By courage that Love only gives, 
Dar'd for a matchless idol, dead, 

I've seen and dar'd for one who lives. 

Again the moon was up, and found 
The echoes of my feet still round 
The monuments of this lone place \ — 

Or saw me, if awhile my lid 
Yielded to sleep, stretch'd at the base 

Of that now precious Pyramid, 
In slumber that the gentlest stir, 
The stillest, air-like step of her, 
Whom ev'n in sleep I watch'd, could chase. 
And then, such various forms she seem'd 
To wear before me, as I dream'd ! — 



42 ALCIPHRON. 

Now, like Neitha, on her throne 

At Sais, all reveal'd she shone, 

With that dread veil thrown off her brow, 

Which mortal never rais'd till now ; * 

Then, quickly chang'd, methought 'twas she 

Of whom the Memphian boatman tells 
Such wondrous tales — fair Rhodope, 

The subterranean nymph, that dwells 
Mid sunless gems and glories hid, 
The Lady of the Pyramid ! 

At length, from one of these short dreams 
Starting — as if the subtile beams, 
Then playing o'er my brow, had brought 
Some sudden light into my thought — 
Down for my boat-lamp to the shore, 

Where still it palely burn'd, I went ; 
Resolv'd that night to try once more 

The mystery of this monument. 

Thus arm'd, I scarce had reach'd the gate, 
W 7 hen a loud screaming — like the cry 

Of some wild creature to its mate — 

Came startling from the palm-grove nigh ; — 

* See, for the veil of Neitha, the inscription upon her temple, 
given by Plutarch, de Is, et Osir. 



ALCIPHRON. 43 

Or, whether haply 'twas the creak 

Of those Lethaean portals,* said 
To give thus out a mournful shriek, 

When oped at midnight for the dead. 
What'er it was, the sound came o'er 

My heart like ice, as through the door 
Of the small Pyramid I went, 
And down the same abrupt descent, 
And through long windings, as before, 
Reach'd the steep marble corridor. 

Trembling I stole along — the light 

In the lone chapel still burn'd on ; 
But she, for whom my soul and sight 

Look'd with a thirst so keen, was gone, — 
By some invisible path had fled 
Into that gloom, leaving the Dead 
To its own solitary rest, 
Of all lone things the loneliest. 

As still the cross, which she had kist, 

Was lying on the crystal shrine, 
I took it up, nor could resist 

(Though the dead eyes, I thought, met mine) 

* The brazen portals at Memphis, mentioned by Zoega, called the 
Gates of Oblivion. 



44 ALCIPHRON. 

Kissing it too, while, half ashamed 
Of that mute presence, I exclaimed, 
" Oh Life to Come, if in thy sphere 

Love, Woman's love, our heav'n could be, 
Who would not ev'n forego it here, 

To taste it there eternally ? " 
Hopeless, yet with unwilling pace, 
Leaving the spot, I turn'd to trace 
My pathway back, when, to the right, 
I could perceive, by my lamp's light, 
That the long corridor which, viewed 

Through distance dim, had seem'd to end 
Abruptly here, still on pursued 

Its sinuous course, with snake-like bend 
Mocking the eye, as down it wound 
Still deeper through that dark profound. 

Again, my hopes were rais'd, and, fast 

As the dim lamp-light would allow, 
Along that new-found path I past, 

Through countless turns ; descending now 
By narrow ducts, now, up again, 
Mid columns, in whose date the chain 
Of time is lost ; and thence along 
Cold halls, in which a sapless throng 
Of Dead stood up, with glassy eye 
Meeting my gaze, as I went by. — 



ALCIPHRON. 45 

Till, lost among these winding ways, 

Coil'd round and round, like serpents' folds, 
I thought myself in that dim maze 

Down under Mceris' Lake, which holds 
The hidden wealth of the Twelve Kings, 
Safe from all human visitings. 
At length, the path clos'd suddenly ; 

And, by my lamp, whose glimmering fell 
Now faint and fainter, I could see 

Nought but the mouth of a huge well, 
Gaping athwart my onward track, — 
A reservoir of darkness, black 
As witches' caldrons are, when rilled 
With moon-drugs in th' eclipse distill'd. 
Leaning to look if foot might pass 
Down through that chasm, I saw, beneath, 

As far as vision could explore, 
The jetty sides all smooth as glass, 

Looking as if just varnish'd o'er 
With that dark pitch the Sea of Death 

Throws out upon its slimy shore. 

Doubting awhile, yet loth to leave 

Aught unexplor'd, the chasm I tried 
With nearer search ; and could perceive 

An iron step that from the side 



46 ALCIPHRON, 

Stood dimly out ; while, lower still, 

Another ranged, less visible, 

But aptly plac'd, as if to aid 

Th' adventurous foot, that dar'd the shade. 

Though hardly I could deem that e'er 

Weak woman's foot had ventured there, 

Yet, urged along by the wild heat 

That can do all things but retreat, 

I placed my lamp, — which for such task 

Was aptly shaped, like cap or casque 

To fit the brow, — firm on my head, 

And down into the darkness went ; 
Still finding for my cautious tread 

New foot-hold in that deep descent, 
Which seem'd as tho' 'twould thus descend 
In depth and darkness without end. 
At length, this step- way ceas'd ; in vain 
I sought some hold, that would sustain 
My down-stretch'd foot — the polish'd side, 
Slippery and hard, all help denied : 
Till, as I bow'd my lamp around, 

To let its now faint glimmer fall 
On every side, with joy I found 

Just near me, in the shining wall, 
A window (which had 'scap'd my view 
In that half shadow) and sprung through. 



ALCIPHRON. 47 

'Twas downward still, but far less rude — 
By stairs that through the live rock wound 
In narrow spiral round and round, 
Whose giddy sweep my foot pursued 
Till, lo, before a gate I stood, 
Which oped, I saw, into the same 
Deep well, from whence but now I came. 
The doors were iron, yet gave way 
Lightly before me, as the spray 
Of a young lime-tree, that receives 
Some wandering bird among its leaves. 
But, soon as I had passed, the din, 

Th' o'erwhelming din, with which again 
They clash'd their folds, and closed me in, 

Was such as seldom sky or main, 
Or heaving earth, or all, when met 

In angriest strife, e'er equalled yet. 
It seem'd as if the ponderous sound 
Was by a thousand echoes hurl'd 
From one to th' other, through the round 

Of this great subterranean world, 
Till, far as from the catacombs 
Of Alexandria to the Tombs 
In ancient Thebes's Valley of Kings, 
Rung its tremendous thunderings. 



48 ALCIPHRON. 

Yet could not ev'n this rude surprise, 

Which well might move far bolder men, 
One instant turn my charmed eyes 

From the blest scene that hail'd them then. 
As I had rightly deem'd, the place 
Where now I stood was the well's base, 
The bottom of the chasm ; and bright 

Before me, through the massy bars 
Of a huge gate, there came a light 

Soft, warm, and welcome, as the stars 
Of his own South are to the sight 
Of one, who, from his sunny home, 
To the chill North had dar'd to roam. 

And oh the scene, now opening through 

Those bars that all but sight denied ! — 
A long, fair alley, far as view 

Could reach away, along whose side 
Went, lessening to the end, a row 

Of rich arcades, that, from between 
Their glistening pillars, sent a glow 

Of countless lamps, burning unseen, 
And that still air, as from a spring 
Of hidden light, illumining. 
While — soon as the wild echoes rous'd 
From their deep haunts again were hous'd, — ■ 



ALCIPHRON. 49 

I heard a strain of holy song 

Breathing from out the bright arcades 
Into that silence — where, among 

The high sweet voices of young maids, 
Which, like the small and heav'n-ward spire 

Of Christian temples, crown'd the choir, 
I fancied, (such the fancy's sway) 

Though never yet my ear had caught 
Sound from her lips — yet, in that lay 

So worthy of her looks, methought 
That maiden's voice I heard, o'er all 

Most high and heavenly, — to my ear 
Sounding distinctly, like the call 

Of a far spirit from its sphere. 

But vain the call — that stubborn gate 

Like destiny, all force defied. 
Anxious I look'd around — and, straight, 

An opening to the left descried, 
Which, though like hell's own mouth it seem'd, 
Yet led, as by its course I deem'd, 
Parallel with those lighted ways, 
That 'cross the alley pour'd their blaze. 
Eager I stoop'd, this path to tread, 
When, suddenly, the wall o'er-head 
Grew with a fitful lustre bright, 
Which, settling gradual on the sight 
e 



50 ALCIPHRON. 

Into clear characters of light, 

These words on its dark ground I read. — 

" You, who would try 
" This terrible track, 

" To live, or to die, 

" But ne'er to look back ; 

" You, who aspire 
" To be purified there 

" By the terrors of Fire 
" And Water and Air ; 

" If danger and pain 

" And death you despise — 

" On — for again 

" Into light you may rise, — 

" Rise into light 

" With that Secret Divine 
" Now shrouded from sight 

" By the Veils of the Shrine ! 

« But if " 



The words here dimm'd away, 
Till, lost in darkness, vague and dread, 



ALCIPHRON. 51 

Their very silence seem'd to say 

Awfuller things than words e'er said. 

" Am I then in the path/' I cried, 

" To the Great Mystery ? shall I see, 
" And touch, — perhaps, ev'n draw aside 
" Those venerable veils, which hide 

" The secret of Eternity ! " 
This thought at once reviv'd the zeal, 

The thirst for Egypt's hidden lore 
Which I had almost ceas'd to feel, 

In the new dreams that won me o'er. 
For now — oh happiness ! — it seem'd 
As if both hopes before me beam'd — 
As if that spirit-nymph, whose tread 

I trac'd down hither from above, 
To more than one sweet treasure led — 
Lighting me to the fountain-head 

Of Knowledge by the star of Love. 

Instant I enter'd— though the ray 
Of my spent lamp was near its last, — 

And quick through many a channel-way, 
Ev'n ruder than the former, pass'd ; 

Till, just as sunk the farewell spark, 

I spied before me, through the dark, 
£ 2 



52 ALCIPHRON. 

A paly fire, that moment raised, 
Which still as I approached it, blazed 
With stronger light, — till, as I came 
More near, I saw my pathway led 
Between two hedges of live flame, — 

Trees all on fire, whose branches shed 
A glow that, without noise or smoke, 

Yet strong as from a furnace, broke ; 
While o'er the glaring ground between, 
Where my sole, onward path was seen, 
Hot iron bars, red as with ire, 

Transversely lay — such as, they tell, 
Compose that trellis-work of fire, 

Through which the Doom'd look out in hell. 

To linger there was to be lost — 

More and still more the burning trees 
Clos'd o'er the path -, and as I crost — 

With tremour both in heart and knees — 
Fixing my foot where'er a space 
'Twixt the red bars gave resting-place, 
Above me, each quick burning tree, 
Tamarind, Balm of Araby, 
And Egypt's Thorn combined to spread 
A roof of fire above my head. 
Yet safe — or with but harmless scorch — 
I trod the flaming ordeal through ; 



ALCIPHRON, 53 

And promptly seizing, as a torch 
To light me on to dangers new, 
A fallen bough that kindling lay 
Across the path, pursued my way. 

Nor went I far before the sound 

Of downward torrents struck my ear ; 
And, by my torch's gleam, I found 
That the dark space which yawn'd around, 

Was a wide cavern, far and near 
Fill'd with dark waters, that went by 
Turbid and quick, as if from high 
They late had dash'd down furiously ; 
Or, awfuller, had yet that doom 
Before them, in the untried gloom. 
No pass appear'd on either side ; 

And tho' my torch too feebly shone 
To show what scowl'd beyond the tide, 

I saw but one way left me — on ! 
So, plunging in, with my right hand 

The current's rush I scarce withstood, 
While, in my left, the failing brand 

Shook its last glimmer o'er the flood. 
'Twas a long struggle — oft I thought, 
That, in that whirl of waters caught, 
I must have gone, too weak for strife, 

Down, headlong, at the cataract's will — 



54 ALCIPHRON. 

Sad fate for one, with heart and life' 

And all youth's sunshine round him still ! 
But, ere my torch was wholly spent, 

I saw, — outstretching from the shade 
Into those waters, as if meant 

To lend the drowning struggler aid — 

A slender, double balustrade, 
With snow-white steps between, ascending 

From the grim surface of the stream, 
Far up as eye could reach, and ending 

In darkness there, like a lost dream. 
That glimpse — for 'twas no longer — gave 

New spirit to my strength ; and now, 
With both arms combating the wave, 

I rush'd on blindly, till my brow 
Struck on that railway's lowest stair ; 
When, gathering courage from despair, 
I made one bold and fearful bound, 
And on the step firm footing found. 

But short that hope — for, as I flew 
Breathlessly up, the stairway grew 
Tremulous under me, while each 
Frail step, ere scarce my foot could reach 
The frailer yet I next must trust, 
Crumbled behind me into dust ; 
Leaving me, as it crush'd beneath, 

Like shipwreck'd wretch who, in dismay, 



ALCIPHRON. 55 

Sees but one plank 'twixt him and death, 

And shuddering feels that one give way ! 
And still I upward went — with nought 

Beneath me but that depth of shade, 
And the dark flood, from whence I caught 

Each sound the falling fragments made. 
Was it not fearful ? — still more frail 

At every step crash'd the light stair, 
While, as I mounted, ev'n the rail 

That up into that murky air 
Was my sole guide, began to fail ! — 
When, stretching forth an anxious hand, 
Just as, beneath my tottering stand, 
Steps, railway, all, together went, 

I touch'd a massy iron ring, 
That there — by what kind genius sent 
I know not — in the darkness hung ; 

And grasping it, as drown ers cling 
To the last hold, so firm I clung, 
And through the void suspended swung. 

Sudden, as if that mighty ring 

Were link'd with all the winds in heav'n, 

And, like the touching of a spring, 
My eager grasp had instant given 

Loose to all blasts that ever spread 

The shore or sea with wrecks and dead — 



56 ALCIPHRON. 

Around me, gusts, gales, whirlwinds rang 
Tumultuous, and I seem'd to hang 
Amidst an elemental war, 

In which wing'd tempests — of all kinds 
And strengths that winter's stormy star 

Lights through the Temple of the Winds 
In our own Athens — battled round, 
Deafening me with chaotic sound. 
Nor this the worst — for, holding still 

With hands unmov'd, though shrinking oft, 
I found myself, at the wild will 

Of countless whirlwinds, caught aloft, 
And round and round, with fearful swing, 
Swept, like a stone-shot in a sling ! 
Till breathless, mazed, I had begun, — 
So ceaselessly I thus was whirled, — 
To think my limbs were chained upon 

That wheel of the Infernal World, 
To turn which, day and night, are blowing 
Hot, withering winds that never slumber ; 
And whose sad rounds, still going, going, 

Eternity alone can number ! 
And yet, ev'n then — while worse than Fear 

Hath ever dreamt seem'd hovering near, 
Had voice but ask'd me, " is not this 

" A price too dear for aught below ?* 
I should have said " for knowledge, yes — 
" But for bright, glorious Woman — no ." 



ALCIPHRON. 

At last, that whirl, when all my strength 

Had nearly fled, came to an end ; 
And, through that viewless void, at length, 

I felt the still-grasp'd ring descend 
Rapidly with me, till my feet — 
Oh, ne'er was touch of land so sweet 
To the long sea-worn exile — found 
A resting-place on the firm ground. 
At the same instant o'er me broke 

A glimmer through that gloom so chill, — 
Like day-light, when beneath the yoke 

Of tyrant darkness struggling still — 
And by th' imperfect gleam it shed, 
I saw before me a rude bed, 
Where poppies, strew'd upon a heap 
Of wither'd lotus, wooed to sleep. 
Blessing that couch — as I would bless, 

Ay, ev'n the absent tiger s lair, 
For rest in such stark weariness, — 

I crawl'd to it and sunk down there. 

How long I slept, or by what means 
Was wafted thence, I cannot say ; 

But, when I woke — oh the bright scenes, 
The glories that around me lay — 

If ever yet a vision shone 

On waking mortal, this was one ! 



51 



58 ALCIPHR05T. 

But how describe it ? vain, as yet, 

While the first dazzle dims my eyes, 
All vain the attempt — I must forget 

The flush, the newness, the surprise, 
The vague bewilderment, that whelms, 

Ev'n now, my every sense and thought, 
Ere I can paint these sunless realms, 

And their hid glories, as I ought. 
While thou, if ev'n but half I tell, 
Wilt that but half believe — farewell ! 



A LCI PH RON. 



59 



LETTER V. 



FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE 
PRAETORIAN PREFECT. 

Rejoice, my friend, rejoice: — the youthful Chief 

Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief, 

And, gay and godless, makes the present hour 

Its only heaven, is now within our power. 

Smooth, impious school! — not all the weapons aimed 

At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed, 

E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield, 

The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers con- 

ceal'd. 
And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet 
As any thou canst boast, — ev'n when the feet 
Of thy proud war-steed wade through Christian blood, 
To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, 
And bring him, tamed and prostrate, to implore 
The vilest gods ev'n Egypt's saints adore. 

What ! — do these sages think, to them alone 
The key of this world's happiness is known ? 



60 ALCIPHRON. 

That none but they, who make such proud parade 

Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid, 

Or that Religion keeps no secret place, 

No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace ? 

Fools! — did they know how keen the zest that's given 

To earthly joy, when seasoned well with heaven ; 

How Piety's grave mask improves the hue 

Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen through, 

And how the Priest, set aptly within reach 

Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each, 

Would they not, Decius, — thou, whom th' ancient tie 

'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally, — 

Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours ? 

Leave the gross daylight joys that, in their bowers, 

Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers, 

For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd 

That slily lurk within the Temple's shade ? 

And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school, — 

Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule, 

Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide ; 

Where Pleasure, cramp'd and chill'd by wisdom's pride, 

Counts her own pulse's regulated play, 

And in dull dreams dissolves her life away, — 

Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true, 

Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue, — 

Who, far too wise to theorize on bliss, 

Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss, 

Preach other worlds, but live for only this : — 



ALCIPHRON* 61 

Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung, 
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung 
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign, 
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine. 

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they 

Alone despise the craft of us who pray ; — 

Still less their creedless vanity deceive 

With the fond thought, that we who pray believe. 

Believe ! — Apis forbid — forbid it, all 

Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we fall, — 

Deities, framed in jest, as if to try 

How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky ; 

How far the same low fancy that combines 

Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs, 

x\nd turns that Heaven itself into a place 

Of sainted sin and deified disgrace, 

Can bring Olympus ev'n to shame more deep, 

Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap. 

Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood, 

Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food, — 

All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees 

In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities ! 

Believe ! — oh, Decius, thou, who hast no care 
Of things divine, beyond the soldier's share, 
Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds, 
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs, — 



62 ALCIPHUON. 

Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs 

Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs 

Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart, 

Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part, — 

The deep and dire disgust with which I wade 

Through the foul juggling of this holy trade, — 

This mud profound of mystery, where the feet, 

At every step, sink deeper in deceit. 

Oh ! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze, 

O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise, 

Did I not keep still proudly in my mind 

The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind, — 

A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, 

To move this world, than Archimede e'er plann'd, — 

I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel 

At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel 

Besotted round ; and, — like that kindred breed 

Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed, 

At famed Arsinoe,* — make my keepers bless, 

With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness. 

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain 
Of their own freedom from the altar's chain, 
Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold, 
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold ? 

* For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were orna- 
mented, see the Epicurean, chap. 10. 



ALCIPHRON. 63 

It must not be : — think'st thou that Christian sect, 

Whose followers, quick as broken waves, erect 

Their crests anew and swell into a tide, 

That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride — 

Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells, ev'n they 

Would triumph thus, had not the constant play 

Of Wit's resistless archery clear'd their way? — 

That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes, 

Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows, 

Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs 

Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines, 

Threatening such change as do the awful freaks 

Of summer lightning, ere the tempest breaks. 

But, to my point, — a youth of this vain school, 
But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool 
Down to that freezing point, where Priests despair 
Of any spark from th' altar catching there, — 
Hath, some nights since, — it was, methinks, the night 
That followed the full Moon's great annual rite, — 
Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward stray 
To these earth- hidden temples, track'd his way, 
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me, 
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see, 
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary. 
The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that stands 
At the Well's lowest depth,-— which none but hands 



64 ALCIPHRON. 

Of new, untaught adventurers, from above, 
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move, — 
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh : — 
'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky, 
Had been observed, curiously wandering round 
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground. 

Instant, th' Initiate's Trials were prepared, — 
The Fire, Air, Water ; all that Orpheus dared, 
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Samian* pass'd, 
With trembling hope, to come to — what, at last ? 
Go, ask the dupes of Myst'ry ; question him 
Who, mid terrific sounds and spectres dim, 
Walks at Eleusis ; ask of those, who brave 
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave, 
With its seven starry gates ; ask all who keep 
Those terrible night-myst'ries where they weep 
And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze, 
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities, — 
Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men, 
Drown'd, hang'd, empaled, to rise, as gods, again ;- 
Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below 
This sev'n-fold mystery — can they tell thee ? No ; 
Gravely they keep that only secret, well 
And fairly kept,— that they have none to tell ; 

* Pythagoras, 



ALCIPHRON. 65 

And, duped themselves, console their humbled pride 
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside. 

And such th' advance in fraud since Orpheus' time, — 
That earliest master of our craft sublime, — 
So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud, 
From the great Orphic Egg have wing'd abroad, 
That, still to' uphold our Temple's ancient boast, 
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most ; 
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round 
In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound ; 
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind, 
With changeful skill ; and make the human mind 
Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray, 
But by the Priest's permission, wins its way, — 
Where, through* the gloom as wave our wizard rods, 
Monsters, at will, are conjured into Gods ; 
While Reason, like a grave-faced mummy, stands, 
With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands. 

But chiefly in the skill with which We use 
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views, 
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds, 
Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds. 
And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil 
Hath, for our use, scoop'd out of Egypt's soil 

F 



66 ALCIPHRON. 

This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes, 

Gardens, and palaces, where Pleasure reigns 

In a rich, sunless empire of her own, 

With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne; — 

A realm for mystery made, which undermines 

The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines 

That keep Initiation's holy rite, 

Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light, 

A light that knows no change, — its brooks that run 

Too deep for day, its gardens without sun, 

Where soul and sense, by turns, are charm'd, surprised. 

And all that bard or prophet e'er devised 

For man's Elysium, priests have realized. 

Here, at this moment, — all his trials past, 
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last, — 
The young Initiate roves, — as yet left free 
To wander through this realm of mystery, 
Feeding on such illusions as prepare 
The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear 
All shapes and hues, at Fancy's varying will, 
Through every shifting aspect, vapour still ; — 
Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown, 
By scenic skill, into that world unknown, 
Which saints and sinners claim alike their own ; 
And all those other witching, wildering arts, 
Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts, 



ALCIPHRON. 67 

Ay, ev'n the wisest and the hardiest, quail 
To any goblin throned behind a veil. 

Yes, — such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear, 

Mix with his night-dreams, form his atmosphere ; 

Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length, 

His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength, 

Like Phrygian priests,, in honour of the shrine, — 

If he become not absolutely mine, 

Body and soul, and, like the tame decoy 

Which wary hunters of wild doves employ, 

Draw converts also, lure his brother wits 

To the dark cage where his own spirit flits, 

And give us, if not saints, good hypocrites, — 

If I effect not this, then be it said 

The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled, 

Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased 

To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste. 



THE END. 



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